


Do I Wake or Sleep?

by winterhill



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dead Like Me, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Death, Flashbacks, Loneliness, Love, M/M, Past Torture, Pining, Reapers, Rules, Touch-Starved, gravelings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:05:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterhill/pseuds/winterhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond is MI6’s latest reaper — a conveyer of souls from this world to the afterlife — and he's not overly happy about his new working conditions. Q has been with the Secret Intelligence Service since the beginning, and he’s so lonely that he wants to die — except for the fact that he’s already dead and has been for a hundred years or so. M has no idea what to do with either of them and to add to all the stress, someone’s just blown up her office.</p><p>For the 00Q Big Bang. JustGot1's art is <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/930191">here</a> and Gundamuubitch's art is <a href="http://gundamuubitch.tumblr.com/tagged/misswinterhill">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do I Wake or Sleep?

**Author's Note:**

> For the 00Q Big Bang, with art by JustGot1 and Gundamuubitch (art links to be updated as the art goes live). Beta by 51stcenturyfox. Thanks, guys! Death warning refers to character deaths as in canon, plus some extras (mostly to become reapers). Loose fusion with the TV show Dead Like Me — some of the universe from the TV show is used, some is original. You definitely don’t need to have watched the show for it to make sense. Lawrence is based on the film version, not the RL version.

To: undisclosed recipients  
Subject: [no subject] 

Does anyone even monitor this inbox? 

I think not — I suspect that this email will bounce — but by the same processes that you send me the names, I know that you — whoever you are — might read this. If anything, I feel better for crying into the void. 

I miss him. I feel like the nightingale in the story of the emperor, but I am the mechanical bird, the pretty little gilded creature who stays, and stays, while the real bird flies out to the forest. I wish for his return, but I fear it; like the toy in the story, I will break and be disowned, discarded. 

I am not made for this. I don’t know, anymore, what I will see when I have outlasted my usefulness. I’ve looked at the deaths of too many people this month, and I’ve seen no place where I would be happy. I don’t think that I can be happy anymore. I don’t know if that matters to you, but I worry that I will simply cease to function; that after so many years my gears will lock up and I will simply stop. I have nowhere to go, yet I can’t keep on like this.

What good it will do to tell you how I feel, I don't know. I'll delete this in the morning. 

Your servant, 

Q

 

_____________

 

Bond’s undershirt stuck to his back in the last of the summer heat, and he’d lost his MI6 issued gun somewhere back in Aleppo; he’d had to make do with what he could find on the last guy he’d killed. Jarabulus was the last place he’d expected to end up this week. The archeological work at Carchemish wasn’t exactly anywhere strategically important, he thought, but there was no chance in the world that the guy ahead of him wasn’t involved in his mission. The guy didn’t seem to have noticed that Bond was watching him — or didn’t seem to care. He strode on, up to where the archeologists were digging and someone — _someone_ — was smuggling in dirty bombs under the guise of supplies. 

A group of children ran down the road, laughing, flowing around Bond like water as they went. One didn’t run as quickly as the others; as Bond watched, the boy placed his foot awkwardly and went down head over heels on the hard road. 

His mark stopped and knelt, helping the child to his feet. 

“There,” he said, and then spoke gently in what sounded like an Arabic dialect. 

The boy nodded, and then pointed at Bond. All right, he did stick out like a sore thumb here, but he knew that there were Brits at the dig, so he decided to play dumb. 

“My young friend wants to know who you are,” said the man, standing. Bond could almost have mistaken him for a local in silhouette, but his accent was all England. He studied Bond with piercing blue eyes. No, definitely not a local. “I told him you were with the archeologists.” 

“Well spotted,” said Bond. 

“I know what you’re here for,” said the man, offering him a hand to shake as the child hid behind him. “And allow me to be the first to say that I am truly sorry.” 

They shook, a little electric spark of connection jumping between them in the warm air. Bond went on his way, feeling his hand tingle, too busy wondering what the hell that was to—

The explosion split the building with a sound that was more like a rolling wave through his body; he dodged falling masonry and debris, coughing and choking his way out of the disaster. A piece of rock hit him, throwing him to the ground, and he was forced to try to break his way out, blood streaming down his cheek from a cut near his temple, his chest feeling like both lungs were punctured and then some. 

He was dead; he knew he was dead in the same way that one knows they’re breathing. But as he hadn’t dropped yet, he did what he did best. He kept going. He dragged himself out of the rubble, and he got both hands on his mark’s throat before the man kicked him off with the grace of a seasoned fighter. They stared at each other as the dust settled and people came running. 

“Come on,” said the man. Bond didn’t move. “Please don’t be a child, Mr Bond; I expect you’ll have some questions.” 

“Chiefly, where is the shipment coming into?” said Bond, his aches quickly vanishing. He twisted, and tried to kick the man’s feet out from under him, but just as he tried, something small and grey scampered past, clambering over Bond’s legs as it went. It looked like a little gargoyle, or what the offspring of a gargoyle and a monkey might be. 

“Wherever that thing is going,” said the man, pointing. 

Bond rolled to his feet in a smooth motion,watching the thing move quickly over rubble, past the people who had gathered to dig at the building, past a sobbing woman and a shocked looking little boy. His mark — the Englishman — called out to the boy. 

“What is that thing?” asked Bond, as they ran. 

“Graveling,” said the man. “I’ll explain later. You see if you can work out where it’s off to; I’ve got something to do.” 

It was almost a command. Bond found himself obeying without question, running after the little ugly monkey-thing. He lost it; his sides ached and he had a stitch, but he definitely wasn’t dropping. He turned, returning — the only person who seemed to know what was going on was his mark, and he was confident in his ability to drop the man if he turned dangerous. He arrived in time to see the man and the little boy who had stumbled — the boy was leading the way towards a tall building that Bond didn’t remember seeing there before. 

He might be concussed. Concussion would certainly explain a lot. 

The boy went into the building alone, and the man turned back to Bond as the building shimmered like a mirage, vanishing into the rush of an emergency scene. His mark was digging in his pocket, coming out with something small. Not a gun, then. All right. He followed the man a little way from the frenetic scene of diggers; people ran past them both as if they were invisible, and Bond got the distinct feeling that they might be. They paused where they were well away from the ruins, and the man sat on a half-wall made of yellow stone. 

“Who are you?” asked Bond, carefully. 

“My name?” asked the man, offering him a battered packet of smokes. Bond took one; he deserved it, he felt. “Call me Ned.” 

“You’re not an Arab,” said Bond, lighting the cigarette with the heat attachment on his watch; Boothroyd had made it to burn papers that needed quick destruction, but it had been more useful for starting fires and igniting fuses. 

Ned laughed. “No, my friend, I’m not,” he said. “It took me sixty years to even want to return here.” 

“Were you sent?” Sixty years?

“I was drawn,” said Ned. “Like the tide wants to touch the moon, but there’s always a gulf between them.” 

“And you’re interested in me.” 

“My…I suppose you’d say my employer is interested in you,” said Ned. “I gather you lost that graveling.” 

“You don’t seem surprised,” said Bond. “One minute it was there, the next, gone.” 

“They’re very active at the moment,” said Ned. “They like to give disaster a nudge.” 

“And that boy — that building —?” asked Bond. 

“He died when a chunk of masonry hit him in the head,” said Ned. “I led his soul to the afterlife.” 

Concussion. Definitely concussion, Bond thought, and this time, probably brain damage as well. 

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this,” said Bond, because he wasn’t the kind of man who cast aspersions on another man’s state of mind, especially when he was a little unsure as to whether he was awake or unconscious under a pile of rocks and simply dreaming. 

“Because you’ve been selected for the job of a lifetime,” said Ned. “A hundred lifetimes, a thousand lifetimes, a million, if you’re unlucky.” 

“Leading souls to the afterlife?” asked Bond. “No thanks; I’ve never been a fan of scythes.” 

“There’ll be names,” said Ned. “Names, and times. All you need to do is draw the soul from the body.” He exhaled a lungful of smoke. “You don’t actually get a choice, I’m afraid.” 

He was intrigued, no matter the fact that he was also quite convinced that this was all a particularly vivid dream. Perhaps the guilt of his job was finally catching up with him. He stubbed the cigarette out, the flames dying quietly. 

“How?” 

“Touch them,” said Ned. “And they’ll go free.” 

“Am I dead?” asked Bond. 

Down below, the body of a child was dragged from the rubble. 

“Tough question,” said Ned. “Dead is a relative term.” 

 

_________

 

The boy was waiting in her office, staring out across London. M looked over his shoulder at the reflection of both of them in the glass, their phantom bodies speckled with streetlights like galaxies in miniature.

“I don’t choose the cast of the dice,” said the boy, turning to her. 

“I know,” she said. “What does he know?” 

“Not much,” said the boy. “He’ll need to be trained.” 

“And I suppose you think that’s your job,” she said. 

“No,” said the boy. “It’ll be best for him if he doesn’t know what I am.” 

“Do you think he won’t tell us when he knows someone’s going to die?” she said. “He’s a lot more loyal than you.” 

The boy turned, and smiled at her. “Then he’ll learn what happens when he tells,” he said. “Sometimes, Ma’am, it’s not about loyalty.” 

“Then what is it about?” she asked. 

“Kindness, I suppose.” 

“Death isn’t kind,” she said. 

“When it’s me,” he said, “it is.”

She turned away from him, making certain to watch his movements in the window-reflections. It would have been far kinder if Bond had died in Syria, but instead he’d called in over the secure video link, a hollow-eyed shell of what he had been. Her heart had ached to see him. The boy seemed to sense her mood, and he bowed a little. 

“I’ll leave you,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. You care deeply for him.” 

“And now he’s one of yours,” she said. “What will you tell him?” 

“Nothing more than he already knows,” said the boy. 

“That seems a little cruel,” she said. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “If I hadn’t known I was dead, I would have perhaps enjoyed the late nineteenth century a lot more.” 

“Get out of my office.” 

He inclined his head. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. 

She didn’t dignify him with a response — instead, she poured herself a drink, and stood where he had, looking out on the terrestrial galaxy of the city lights, before sitting at her computer and calling up a file. 

OBITUARY — COMMANDER JAMES BOND the filename read. She pressed the X in the top corner. 

DELETE WITHOUT SAVING?

She pressed OK, and then sat back in her chair, looking at her desktop screen, feeling more than a little blank. 

 

_________

 

Bond adapted quickly to death; he adapted quickly to anything, and he was too intelligent not to know that something truly bizarre had happened. He tested it, when Ned was out of sight — he ran his good knife along the soft flesh of his palm, watching the blood well in a deep cut, and then, just as smoothly as he’d made the wound, the sides seamed themselves closed, neat and clean as if he’d never been hurt. 

Well.

He’d called in on his palm computer, and got M herself — she looked guarded, told him to continue as is, and that yes, Ned was a safe contact. Not MI6, she’d said, but trustworthy enough; he’d worked with them before, and he’d signed the Official Secrets Act. It didn’t make Bond trust Ned, but it made him relax slightly. 

They’d gone back to Aleppo and to the Baron Hotel; haunted by the ghosts of the past, Bond thought, but Ned fitted right in. Their rooms adjoined — 201 and 202, and it was late when Bond let himself into Ned’s room, his own room too quiet and empty for comfort. He had questions. Ned was sitting on the balcony, looking up at the stars, speaking to someone on the telephone. 

“No,” he said. “It was as much a surprise to me as…yes, yes. Darling. Darling. Don’t say that.” 

Bond didn’t make a sound, just listened. 

“I’m sorry,” said Ned. “If I could, I…Of course I would, don’t be ridiculous.” He choked, and Bond got the impression that he was eavesdropping on something unbearably personal. He cleared his throat, and Ned glanced over at him, but he continued; the soft pleading turned into a less desperate conversation, but it still seemed oddly like the conversation of a man going to that place of no return. Bond removed himself, got them both a drink, and when he returned, Ned was off the phone. 

“I was in love with the most beautiful woman in the world, once,” said Bond, handing him the glass of scotch. 

“When I was younger, I loved too easily,” said Ned. “There was a man I adored, but circumstances intervened. And then I found another — someone who was that rarest of all creatures, someone who was able to love me as much as I needed, in the way that I needed.” 

“The person on the phone?” 

“Yes,” said Ned, finishing his glass. “I suppose I never considered what it was that _he_ needed in return.” He sighed. “Will you go back to London?” 

“Yes,” said Bond. 

“I could tell you to find him,” said Ned. “But he’d hate that.” His hands were trembling. “Would you find him, if I told you to?” 

“Yes,” said Bond, intrigued. “Would he tell me more about what I’m supposed to do, if I’m leading souls to the afterlife?” 

“Probably,” said Ned. An explosion, far-off, echoed through the streets. “We’ll go in a little while. I think we’ve got a busy night.” 

 

___________

 

2006\. Venice. Water taxis, the faint wobble of the waves under the boats as they were pushed down the streets, the slop-splash of paddles into what looked like liquid sky. 

“Do you know,” said Vesper, when he remarked upon it, “that blue is the symbol of the eternal?” She tucked her knees up a little, and the shadow of a bridge passed over them both. “It’s because it’s a liar.” 

“I don’t understand,” he said. 

She cupped a palm full of the blue water, letting it run clear between her fingers. “Look. It looks blue, but it’s not. It’s nothing.” She flicked the last few droplets off the edges of her nails. “It looks beautiful until you try to touch it, then it falls away to nothing.” 

Later, he wondered if that had been her warning him, but in the there and then, he’d kissed her. 

“Do you trust me?” she asked, her right palm slightly cool against his cheek. 

“I shouldn’t,” he replied. “But I do.” 

“Your eyes are blue,” she said, kissing him. 

“Don’t try to touch them,” he warned, and she laughed. “I’m real. You know that.” 

“I do,” she said. “You’re the realest person I’ve ever met.” 

She’d died in water, slipping through his fingers as transparent as if she’d never existed. He wondered how he’d been so blinded by her, but then, that was part of the allure, wasn’t it? She’d been as beautiful as a blue sky, she’d drawn him closer and closer and he’d never quite reached her before the blue turned to airless black, and he was alone again. 

 

___________

 

“This is Lola Ratzen in Aleppo, for ABC news,” said Lola, her headscarf fluttering in the breeze. “All right, Tim. We’ll get moving; I’m sure there’s something going on downtown.” 

Tim looked at her with a sour expression. “It’s not exactly peaches downtown, darlin’,” he said. 

“Timmy,” she said. “Screw winning a Pulitzer — we’re going to win the fucking Peace Prize if we can get this story straight; there’s no good reason for everything to be going haywire tonight. Someone’s interfering.” 

He smiled at that, hefting his camera from his shoulder. “Anything for you. Come on, get in the car.” 

There were people on the streets as they made their way downtown, and the boom-bang of shells was getting louder; Tim decided for them both that they’d walk the last few blocks, Lola shielded from the street by his body, and they shouldered their way through protesters until someone grabbed her arm. She nearly shrieked until she saw who it was, and then she hit him instead — open palm, smack across his face. 

“Lola Ratzen,” said James Bond. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

She’d met James Bond once before — on assignment — and they’d fucked magnificently on the balcony of his private suite in the Palm Hotel in Dubai. He’d left before the sun came up, and she’d realised much, much later that he was probably a spy; there’d been a diamond-smuggling operation of extraordinary complexity that had been broken open the next day, the terrorist groups funded by the dirty stones left with a huge smoking hole in the middle of their operations. She’d won an award for her coverage of the story. She’d been extremely annoyed about waking up alone. 

“You look like death,” she said, folding her arms.

“Funny you should say that,” he replied. 

“ _What_ is going on?” asked Tim. 

“Tim, this is James,” said Lola. “James, this is Tim, my fiance.” 

“Fiance,” said James, with a smile. He put out a hand to shake Tim’s. “Congratulations.” He turned to his companion. “This is Ned.” 

“Ma’am,” said Ned, respectfully. “It’s an honour.” 

“An honour?” she asked, but damn, she was going to take it where she could get it. “And what are two fine gentlemen like you doing in the middle of a civil war?” 

“Same thing you’re doing,” said James. 

“You’re not a reporter,” she replied. 

“Trying to work out what the hell is happening,” James said, and then Lola’s ears popped as a bomb went off right above them. 

There was a moment of bright, intense heat, and all four of them ended up on the ground, but when she looked up James was standing, just as cool and unruffled as he’d ever been. She hated him a little for that — for the ability to look so good when everything around them was so bad. He offered her a hand up as Ned helped Tim to his feet, the blast ringing through the streets. 

“What was that?” asked Lola. 

“That was a dirty bomb, set to go off just above the protest,” said James, grimly. “Perfect way to spread material through the city — people’s clothes, their hair, into ambulances with the injured, into houses and shops. Ned, did you—” 

“I didn’t know they’d still had any,” said Ned. “I thought they were all destroyed in the air strike that hit you.” 

“Air strike?” asked Lola, as people began to scream. “Wait, if that’s a dirty bomb…” 

“It doesn’t matter to you,” said Ned. “Darling, you’re dead, and he’s done more than a decent job of reaping your soul.”

James, for his part, looked sort of apologetic. “At least you went together,” he said, and there was something under that, something that she thought must have eaten at him for a good long time now. 

And she must be going mad with the shock of the bomb, because right there, right in the middle of downtown Aleppo, there was an oasis. A proper oasis — one like in the movies, with palm trees and shimmering water, and camels, bloody _camels_ on a city street. 

“What the _hell_ is that?” said Tim, his voice hoarse with what she knew he’d absolutely refuse to call fear. 

“That is something I’ve been waiting for,” said Ned. “Waiting for a very long time.” 

He had this sort of glassy look, that look that people got in interviews when they remembered past loves, or their halcyon days, or something equally trite but equally truthful, equally emotive. 

“And so what now?” asked Bond, as somewhere in the background, the city shook and cried in the aftermath of what had to have been a devastating attack. Lola was surprised that there hadn’t been more pain. 

“This is where I leave you,” said Ned, and he shook Bond’s hand. “It’s been pleasant. Do try to be kind.” 

He walked into the mirage without looking back, a little spring in his step as if he couldn’t quite hold off from running. Lola swallowed. 

“Now what?” she asked, as a silvery helicopter landed beside them, a flag emblazoned upon its tail. 

Home — she was flying home. That had to be there for her. 

“I think you go,” said Bond, looking at her and Tim. “Both of you.” 

“And you?” she asked. 

“It’s not my time yet,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Take care of yourself.” 

She smiled, swinging herself up and into the open door. “See you on the other side!” 

“Unlikely!” he called back, waving as the rotors whirred and they took off, Tim’s fingers laced through hers. At least they were together, she thought, her heart bursting with love for him. 

As James’s small figure faded into the Syrian night, Lola wondered if they’d be allowed to use Tim’s camera. This could be the story of a lifetime. 

 

___________

 

::: ABC news pays tribute to slain journalist and camera team Lola Ratzen and Timothy Cohen ::: Spate of recent attacks in Syria linked to cyberterrorism ::: Parliamentary inquiry into defence spending in its third day ::: Rumours of a Spice Girls reunion tour ::: Cricket: Australia determined to steal the Ashes despite injury ::: Odd Spot: Chemical leaks force the evacuation of an entire island ::: 

 

___________

 

Q was thinking of paintings, and first and last meetings, and how one meeting could be both things. He hadn’t been born when Turner was painting, but he’d seen the painting of the Temeraire in the National Gallery when he was lost and lonely in London. Q had learned Newbolt’s poem by heart not long after the decision to make the secret intelligence service a formal reality had been taken. A reminder, he thought, that everything has its time. Q tucked his clothing around himself more tightly — he’d always felt the cold — and made his way along the street, up past the book shop, cars clogging the arteries and veins of his London. His mind was on Turner and Newbolt, when it should be on the task at hand. 

_There’s a far bell ringing,_ said his memory, _at the setting of the sun._

Ned’s phone call had upset him more than he cared to admit. He’d met Ned in 1925 at some ghastly formal service, something about medals and honours, and Ned had snuck out the back for a cigarette and a bit of a yell at the rose bushes. Q had been patrolling the gardens — an elderly guest was due to have a stroke that afternoon — and they’d happened on each other, Ned pacing and frustrated, Q a quiet audience. 

He’d fallen in love very quickly. He’d known who Ned was, of course — there wasn’t a person in England who didn’t know who Ned was, even if they wouldn’t recognise him in the street, or without his headscarf — and he’d been reluctant to muddy his work with friendship, but the man was like a landed star. Despite himself, Q couldn’t help but orbit. He’d even followed Ned to India; back then, the restrictions on Q’s movements were looser. 

He’d been almost obscenely glad when Ned had become a reaper; now Q could keep him, could tuck himself close to the man and be loved. 

Ned had, of course, left. That was what people did — they left. He’d returned, once or twice — most dramatically when MI6 decided to try to imprison Q in the early 1990s — but he never stayed. He was, perhaps, incapable of staying. An early autumn wind whipped litter up from the grey streets, made it dance around Q’s ankles. He almost strayed from his path, slipping between buildings to look at the light shimmer across the Thames, but he didn’t have time. 

He’d meet the new reaper under Turner’s masterwork, he decided. The grand old ship, the saucy Temeraire, and the little water-beetle tug; faster, stronger, not broken. He heard the chimes, and cursed under his breath, making his way down the street just in time to stop in front of the bookshop. He’d accessed public records, CCTV, driver’s licenses, and he knew the face of his target, the name, everything about him. The man had three children, two grandchildren, and a collection of Elvis Presley memorabilia, judging from his eBay records. No wife — she’d died three years ago. 

Yes, the man was looking at a book in the window — _The King and I_ , with a big picture of a sequinned Elvis on the front — Q winced at the pun, but put a hand on the man’s arm, feeling his soul leap. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, with his best friendly smile. “I was wondering if you knew the time?” 

“Just gone six,” said the man, looking at his watch. “Oh goodness. My bus!” 

He trotted off, and Q turned away — he didn’t need to see this. He heard the screech of tyres and the dull wet crunch of human against car. Beside him, someone cleared their throat.

“Gosh,” said the man — the ghost of the man — looking back at what he had been. “I’d been wondering if I had enough in the bank this week for that lovely book. Now I suppose I’ll never read it.” 

Q smiled. “I think there’s books in heaven,” he said, as the door to the bookshop went silver-pale, and sirens blared out on the road. “Why don’t you go through and see?” 

“Yes,” said the man, “yes, I think I shall,” and the bell rang as he pushed open the door. The silver faded almost instantly — Q might have gone with that one, but he probably couldn’t have got in there without shouldering the man out of the way, and he didn’t want to do that to someone’s death. 

Q turned back to the street, and wished he hadn’t, really. There was an awful amount of blood. He turned away, dug his hands into his pockets, and breathed in, the unseasonably chill air cold all the way to the bottom of his lungs, bringing him life even though he’d been dead more than a hundred years. He ran to the Thames, catching it just as the last light left. He would meet the new reaper; he would not be bitter, he would not let himself hope for release from this bare, lonely existence. 

He would not be jealous of Ned for getting to go first. 

 

___________

 

 _Now the sunset breezes shiver,_  
 _Téméraire! Téméraire!_  
And she's fading down the river,  
Téméraire! Téméraire!  
Now the sunset's breezes shiver,  
And she's fading down the river,  
But in England's song for ever  
She's the Fighting Téméraire.  


 

Henry Newbolt

 

___________

 

**Interrogation of Quentin Fraser 8/9/1992 — partial transcript**

**Tell us about “reapers”, Mr Fraser.**  
They’re the people who take the souls of the dead through to the afterlife. 

**And you believe that you’re one of them.**  
I am one of them.

 **Is it an organised terrorist group?**  
No. It’s not a terrorist group. I’ve spent a long time considering it, and the only answer that I’ve come to is that it’s some sort of psychological process. Do animals have reapers? Not that I’ve seen. Something about humans makes us different — something about humans makes us worthy of being collected, being taken to the afterlife. I don’t kill people. My actions don’t kill people. They were going to die — I simply collect them. I don’t know the identity of the force that sends me the names — I suppose one might think of it as God, but that seems a little simplistic. I knew a man who thought that it might be some great genius, some collective belief that keeps us going, because everyone wants to be looked after on their last journey. 

**That’s a little romantic, don’t you think?**  
I don’t pretend to understand. I learned that many years ago. 

**Yet you refuse to tell us everything you know in advance.**  
It won’t help. Those people will still die. 

**Knowing they will die will…**  
No. You don’t understand. We have tried this before — at the beginning. It caused many more problems than it solved. 

**Things are different now.**  
[Laughter.] 

**All right. Who do you report to, then?**  
I don’t report to a name. I’m sent names; they simply appear in my notebook. 

**This notebook?**  
Yes. There’s names and dates — the dates and times mark the death. 

**Do you honestly not see how this could help us?**  
Go on and try, and we’ll see how much of a success it is. The next death I have access to is Tiago Rodriguez, who will die very soon at Station H. I am supposed to take his soul; to do so, I need to be on a plane at four o’clock. I can see your watch — I failed to do so. This will not lead to a positive outcome. 

**Is that a threat?**  
No. I’m not threatening you. I simply want — I want — I’ve served my country for many years. I know what I’m doing, and believe me, if I know something that will be useful, I will not hesitate to share the information. But it’s not usually useful. It’s usually — depressing. If you want to change things, fine. If I know an agent will fall, I’ll tell you. If I know an identified mark will die, I’ll tell you. But I can’t tell you how, or why. I simply don’t know that information. I only know who, when, and where.

 **Have you never thought to question the person who sends you the information?**  
As far as I know they’re not a person. I don’t know what to call them. I’ve given significant thought to it, but I do not have an answer. 

**What is the process of “taking souls”?**  
I get the names, places and dates of death. They appear in my notebook — I’ve run various tests, and I’ve been unable to work out how that happens. I’m forced to concede that it may be some form of supernatural intervention. I find the person at the place and time of death. I take their soul from their body prior to the event of their death, and assist them in moving to the afterlife. 

**The afterlife?**  
As far as I know that’s what it is. I’ve never been. They always seem happy to go. 

**And you “take their soul”. How?**  
Would you like me to demonstrate? Give me your hand. 

[Confusion: a voice shouts, and then there is silence. Untranscribable.] 

I’m sorry. Are you all right? 

**That’s really…something.**  
Yes. Can I go now? 

**Not yet, Mr Fraser. There will be more questions. Tell me about “gravelings”.**  
Accidents personified, as far as I can tell. They certainly hasten deaths, but I don’t think they’re actively evil. 

**No?**  
Well, they got me out of here the second time, didn’t they? 

**You have only had one escape attempt, Mr Fraser.**

**Mr Fraser?**

[Crash, sounds of breaking glass.]

**Mr Fraser?**

[Transcript Ends] 

 

___________

 

The email had been only a few words: _Take Ronson’s soul before they do._ Bond had looked at it, frowned — undisclosed sender, not that unusual in their line of work — but he didn’t really understand it in the context of his MI6 work, so decided it was part of the whole _dead_ thing. He didn’t show Eve — not that he didn’t trust her. All right, he didn’t trust her. She was very pretty, and very good at their work, but she was a terrible poker player. He didn’t trust her to know which cards to play and which cards to hold. 

And then their rendezvous with Ronson had gone to shit, because the man was bleeding out, frothy red on his teeth, and there wasn’t much longer for him. Bond pressed a hand to Ronson’s chest, but Ronson shooed him off. 

“Get after him,” he said. “We need those names.” 

“What’s going on?” asked M, peremptorily. 

“Ronson’s down,” said Bond. “We need medevac.” 

“For god’s sake, get _after_ him,” she said, and it was with a quiet apology to Ronson that he did so, bolting out and into the street, wondering briefly if that one touch had been enough to take his soul. 

It was something of a shock to see Ronson in the marketplace — he was solid-looking enough, but a large bloodstain on his shirt belied his healthy appearance. 

“What are you doing here?” asked Bond, masking his surprise with annoyance. 

“Helping,” said Ronson. “I lost those names. I’m going to help you get them back.” 

“Fine,” said Bond, casting about for transport. 

“There,” said Ronson, pointing at an unsecured motorbike, a newer model beside it. 

Bond nodded. “Get the other bike,” he said, urgently, and Ronson did — he jumped on it, and he was following, following, until— somewhere between the markets and the train Bond lost him. Never mind. He’d catch up eventually, and Bond had rather more to think about right at that second, like the skin of his shoulder healing over the fragments of some fucking bullet. He’d have to do something about this quick healing, although it did make continuing easier, it did make taking risks easier, it made his job easier. 

Who would have thought that it was better to serve your country after you were dead? 

 

_________

 

M tried not to let her knowledge of Bond’s new status influence her, but it did, less than a week after Bond had been pulled from Syria and put into Turkey, backup for Ronson.

Things did not go well. 

“I don’t have a clear shot,” said Eve, panicked; she was a good agent, but even the best agent might panic under these conditions. 

Of course, of course, if Bond were alive, she might think twice about the order. But Bond was dead, wasn’t he? He’d survive the shot, because he hadn’t survived an explosion. It was worth the risk. 

“Take the shot,” she said.

Behind her, the boy stood quietly. He wasn’t Q, no matter if he’d owned the title first — Boothroyd had earned the title, dammit, earned it more than the smug ageless child who moved through the place like a ghost. She was happy to think of him as “the boy” even after all this time; he needed to earn respect, not demand it. 

“Take the bloody shot!” 

The comms crackled after the recoil of the bullet. 

“Agent down,” said Eve, and the boy stepped closer in the spreading silence. “Oh my god, agent down.” 

“Can you catch that train?” asked M. 

“Didn’t you hear me?” asked Eve. “I shot him!” 

“And lost the files,” said M, anger threatening to burn its way right through her chest, like a flowing tide. “Well _done_. Off comms.” 

She flicked the switch on her desk that would mute the microphone; she left the speakers on so that they could hear Eve’s horrified reaction to shooting Bond. 

“What now?” she asked. “Do we go and get him?” 

“No,” said the boy. “He doesn’t know.” 

“He’ll know now,” said M. “He’s not that stupid.” 

“Wait,” said the boy. “If he’s still gone after six months, I’ll bring him to you.” 

“We don’t have six months,” said M. “If those names get out, those men don’t have six months.” 

“Recall them,” said the boy. 

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “They’re not all our people.” She met his eyes. “You can tell me names, can’t you?” 

She knew he kept a list, an obscene little list that held all the deaths for that day. 

“No. I don’t have them; I won’t be the one who takes them,” said the boy. “But if you don’t recall those agents, there’s going to be another list somewhere else.” 

“Is that a threat?” she asked. 

“No,” he said. “It’s a fact. It won’t be my list. But it will belong to someone like me.” 

She didn’t have to tell him to get out of her office, this time. He left of his own accord, his face downcast, like he was angry and hurt; as if he had any right to be angry and hurt. 

She called Eve. “I’m recalling you,” she said, without preamble. 

“I’m trying to find the body,” said Eve, hoarsely. “There’s blood in the water, but there’s nothing here.” 

“Eve,” said M. “I’m recalling you, effective immediately. I’m putting someone else onto the recovery operation. You need to debrief.” 

“I’m so sorry,” said Eve, her voice cracking. “God, I’m so _sorry_.” 

“So am I,” said M, wondering when and how Bond would pop back up. “But we need you. Come home.” 

 

_________

 

 _Take the bloody shot._ He woke. He slept. _Take the bloody shot._ He thought his way around the world and back. He got drunk, he talked his way into people’s lives and homes. He tried to get his end away, but his hands were always too cold for the girls he picked up, or his dick unresponsive when he wanted it to be.

 _Take the bloody shot,_ thought Bond. 

His shoulder ached. Perhaps he wasn’t dead after all. 

_________

 

Bond didn’t come back — Q didn’t hear from him, not hide nor hair nor sound, nothing for weeks. Eve Moneypenny returned, and Q tried to hint to her that it wasn’t her fault, but he suspected that he was coming off as creepy, so he stopped. She would be comforted when Bond returned, anyway, and there were more pressing matters to deal with. 

Devastatingly pressing. Q pulled the email up on his phone again. And again. And again. 

It didn’t change; six names, six people in the building, in the damn building. Something was going to happen; something big enough to bring him away from the tepid little field missions he carried out, following lesser agents around London and releasing the souls of people before they had time to work out that they were dead. Something that he couldn’t do through his very clever programs, and his very capable devices. 

He read it again: 

Sandra McIntosh  
Loelia Ponsonby  
George Redman  
Jim Delacroix  
Simon King

And another; one that made his chest constrict: 

Geoffrey Boothroyd

He’d let Boothroyd take the title of Q; the first person he’d allowed to be Q since they’d laid the foundation stone for the modern SIS by insisting on code letters. Q had seen the way the wind was blowing; he’d passed the job of quartermaster over after the Cuban Missile Crisis, and let himself slip into the background again. It hadn’t worked — by the eighties, he’d been interrogated sixteen times by his own organisation, and imprisoned twice. He was let go eventually, and he learned to take souls remotely, to hide himself from agents, to lurk and creep in the back of Q branch. 

Boothroyd protected him. They’d known one another since Boothroyd was a young man, and they’d shared a flat under the SIS building during the early eighties, when the organisation was experimenting with keeping their agents and techs on-site. Boothroyd had moved out when Q was imprisoned by M — he’d taken a leave of absence in protest, and while he’d returned as quartermaster once things were set to rights, he’d never come back to live in the building. Q sometimes stayed with him still; Boothroyd seemed to forget, these days, that Q wasn’t as young as he looked — he treated Q like a precious grandchild. 

Somewhat humiliatingly, Q was all too happy to be someone’s precious grandchild. He was Peter Pan, most days — he grew old, but he never grew up. He just grew apart — first Ned, now Boothroyd — was this punishment for sending that email, all those months ago? Was he being told that he should simply expect to be lonely? Or were they preparing to take him, too? Maybe all he had to do was to train James Bond, and then he’d finally get to rest. He had to get Bond back to England if that was going to happen, and judging from Bond’s track record, that wasn’t exactly going to be easy.

He looked at the names again, and the time. He exhaled. Something was going to happen — something big — and Q was going to be there for it. 

 

_________

 

Severine smoothed her hair over her shoulders, leaning on the windowsill and looking out over the ruined city that filled every corner of a nameless island. She felt some empathy for it — the dusty, crumbling buildings, abandoned, name and life taken away under the guise of rescue by the same man who had taken her name and her life under a similar, insidious lie. She’d loved him once. She didn’t anymore. 

“Darling,” he said, not looking up from his screen. “Come over here.” 

She resisted for only seconds, but then he tapped on the table beside him, and she turned to smile at him, making her way to his side. 

“Look,” he said, bringing up a little animation on the screen. “And while that’s happening, Mummy’s house will be blown to _bits_.” 

It was a beautiful piece of programming. Severine had to give him that — it was a beautiful piece of programming. She sat in her gilded cage — her louboutins, her swarovski, her silver and gold and lace — and watched as Silva worked. 

“Draw me another skull,” he said, running his broad hand up her bare arm. “One with sparkles on it.” 

“Sparkles are ugly,” she said, because she made sure to be well-versed in fashion, in beauty, in every pretty thing that he would give her. It was one-tenth conformity and nine-tenths escape. 

“Then they’re perfect for the occasion, little one,” he replied. 

Sometimes, she thought she saw smoke curling around the edges of the servers, but nothing ever caught on fire, so it had to be her imagination. Sometimes, she saw things moving in the shadows — frightening things, not people, not animals (his henchmen had cleared the island of animals; they’d shot everything that moved, laughing, raucous, letting the bodies lie and rot). Sometimes, she wondered how much longer she’d live, and whether the last thing she’d see would be the sun rising over the ocean, the land too far away to swim to. 

She didn’t think so. She thought that perhaps the last thing she’d see would be the first thing that had placed her on this new road — Raoul Silva’s shiny, smiling face, his eyes as soulless as a computer screen. 

 

_________

 

M’s week was on the downslide. Definitely. She’d been under solicitous pressure from Eve and Tanner to file an obituary for Bond, and she was almost tempted to do it, even given that Eve seemed to be holding such hope that she hadn’t really killed one of MI6’s finest agents, and M knew for a fact that she hadn’t. 

Add to that Gareth Mallory’s interference, and she was ready to go to the gun range and shoot a paper target until it was in tatters. 

“Tanner,” said M, as they drove away from Mallory’s office and the source of her current frustrations. “What do you think? Should I let this sanctimonious little shit unseat me?” 

“What?” Tanner asked, brow wrinkling a little. “Which sanctimonious little shit are we talking about?” 

“Mallory.” 

“I don’t know that I’d call him a little shit,” said Tanner. “It may be inevitable.” 

She sighed. “I know,” she said. “The world is changing.” 

“It is,” said Tanner, sympathetically. “Oi, what’s this on the computer?” 

She looked at the screen — a stylised skull, a calavera, with a message: THINK ON YOUR SINS. 

“Q,” she said, because who else could it be? How many other creepy little computer geniuses were running around MI6? But then again, had the boy ever shown any inclination towards this sort of tasteless display. No. “No, not him. Someone else. But what does it mean?” 

“Nothing good,” said Tanner. “In my experience, skulls never mean _anything_ good.” 

 

_________

 

Sandra was bored. Bored, bored, bored, with a capital B on top. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her job — she did like her job, she liked the view, she liked the people — particularly Tanner, who was possibly the most long-suffering man on the face of the planet, but it was simply that she hated being a secretary in a secure environment. She couldn’t go on Facebook in her breaks. She couldn’t even have her phone in her bag. She couldn’t gossip about work. She couldn’t say or do anything that wasn’t monitored. 

To be honest, she’d been thinking lately about chucking it all in and starting a cupcake business. 

A gentle knock at the door heralded the arrival of someone into her office; she sighed, because M was out and there were no on-site appointments booked in until after lunch. She perked up when she saw who it was, though — that was one thing you could say for the SIS — gorgeous co-workers. 

“Sandra,” said the adorable boy from down in Q-branch. “Is it all right if I go through to M’s office? She said she dropped that horrible bulldog statue and now it’s got a big crack in the side. I was going to fix it for her.” 

“Go right through, sweetheart,” she said, because he was really very darling; she saw him in the break room often enough, and he always had time to spend with everyone. He listened to people’s stories, liked to talk to them and make them feel at home. 

“How’s your Mam?” he asked, instead of going right through; he walked around her desk and put a companionable hand on her shoulder. “Last time I spoke to you, you weren’t sure.” 

“Better,” said Sandra. “I wish I could tell her I do love her, really, but it’s just so frustrating when she doesn’t know who I am.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Better to die young than to go like that, I reckon.”

“I think so,” said Q. “At least then you get to enjoy the afterlife.” He gave her a wicked look. “I’ll be in the afterlife if I do anything horrid to that bulldog, won’t I?”

Sandra laughed. “Get on with you. You’ll make her day.” 

“I really doubt I will,” he said, but he smiled, anyway, and ducked into to the office, bringing the bulldog out, cradled carefully between his palms. “I’ll see you soon.” 

She looked up from her screen, where her mouse wasn’t doing anything she wanted it to. “All right,” she said. 

There was a little kerfuffle at the door; Sandra’s emails had locked up, and she frowned at them before looking up to see Q in the doorway. Surely between the two of them they could help? 

“Hello, Q,” said the boy, and he briefly hugged the quartermaster. “It’s time. I’m sorry.” 

“Ah,” said Q, and he sounded strangely sad. “I suppose there’s nothing I can do?” 

“Not a whit,” said the boy, and he briefly rested against Q. Odd. “I’ll come and get you.” 

“You’re a good lad,” said Q, kissing his cheek. “A very good lad.” 

“I’m not,” said the boy, clutching the bulldog to his chest. “I’ll come and get you, I promise; I’ve got a little more to do before then.” 

Emails forgotten, Sandra openly eavesdropped. 

“How many?” asked Q. 

“Six,” said the boy. 

Q whistled. “Something big, then.” 

“Yes,” said the boy. “I’m sorry.” 

 

__________

 

Something like smoke passed through the SIS building’s wires and cables; systems so perfectly programmed that no artificial intelligence could disrupt them. The explosion took out most of an entire floor, and in the dust and confusion, no-one noticed a little movement in the smoke that was not going with the airflow — that, in fact, was curling up in the server racks, lying in wait, hiding without any difficulty at all. 

 

__________

 

1958\. Ned had curled up with his head on Q’s lap, letting Q comb gentle fingers through his hair. His tan-line stopped at the neck and wrists; Q traced the mark that the sun had burned into his skin like a scar. He’d come home after the world had nearly ended in fire. Briefly, only ever briefly.

“You’re thinking of something dreadful,” said Ned, looking up at Q’s face, eyes bright as sapphires. 

“No,” said Q. “I’m thinking of you.” 

Ned laughed. “Something dreadful indeed,” he said. 

Q sighed, but didn’t move. Didn’t contradict him. Ned seemed to pick up on his mood, and he closed his eyes, letting Q pet him as if that could soothe all that ached between them. 

“Did you ever love anyone before me?” asked Ned. 

“Yes,” said Q. “It didn’t end well.” 

“Poor Quentin,” said Ned. “You love the wrong people. You shouldn’t love me. You shouldn’t have loved him, if he hurt you.” 

“I thought he was the right person,” said Q, not saying anything at all about Ned’s casual assumptions about Q’s life. He supposed he was lucky enough not to be arrested for something other than reaping. 

“Did you ever know anyone famous?” said Ned, opening his eyes. “You’ve lived a long time, you have to have known famous people.” 

“Really, Ned, how many not-famous people are there in London?” asked Q. “You’re all the famous I need.” 

“But did you?” asked Ned. “I’d wager that you knew a famous murderer.” 

“What’s got into you?” asked Q, brushing his fingers through Ned’s hair. 

“Terrible things,” said Ned. “Terrible things; I need a distraction.” 

“I did know Jack the Ripper,” said Q. 

“How well?” asked Ned. “Did you trust him?” 

“Extremely well,” said Q. “I did trust him, until I found out…well. What’s on your mind?” 

“In future, let’s only trust each other,” said Ned. 

“Who hurt you?” asked Q. 

“No-one,” said Ned. “Let it go.” 

Of course Q found what had happened in SIS reports when he went looking for it; he saw the reports, and when he went home that night he ran a gentle hand over Ned’s shoulders, and they ended up curled together like woodlice. _Let’s only trust each other_ , Q thought; of course the reports of King Faisal’s death sat heavy on Ned’s heart. 

 

__________

 

In a bar on an island so small that it looked like a speck of fly-dirt on a map, BBC World played as Lisa and Milo cleaned up after the night before, and their strange English visitor sat slumped at the bar. He was almost part of the furniture; she could probably dust him, and he’d not even look up. 

“In breaking news, central London has been shut down by emergency services following a massive explosion at the SIS building…” 

Lisa had made tiny cakes for lunch — hot little bites of sugar-sweet that she thought might be good for a man who had been stung by a scorpion. Milo had seen it — the Englishman bargained drinks out of the crowds every evening by doing the scorpion trick, and Milo said he’d been stung ten times, but he never said anything. 

“I brought you some—” she began. 

“Thank you,” he said, and then: “I’m sorry. It’s time for me to go. I’ve been dead for long enough.”

There wasn’t even a mark on his wrist where the scorpion had got him. She shivered. “Take care, then.” 

He bent to kiss her cheek. “Thank you,” he said. “I won’t forget this.” 

(He didn’t, either — when Lisa next went to bank the day’s profits, someone had put enough money into their account to let them pay off their debts without penalty. When she asked for the statement, the transfer had come in from a Swiss bank, and the description read SO YOU CAN FEED THE SCORPIONS SOMETHING OTHER THAN PEOPLE. 

She had the statement framed; it was too good not to.)

 

__________

 

“That was a bloody big explosion,” said Sandra, smoothing her hair. 

“It was, wasn’t it?” asked Q, as the dust fell, bits of burning paper and wooden desk drifting as soft as snow. “The others?” 

“That was it,” said the boy. “We’ll pick them up as we go out.” 

“Do we all go to the same place?” asked Q. 

“What?” asked Sandra. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” said the boy. “But you’re dead.” 

“You could have told me,” she said. “I’d have…Called my Mam, written FUCK YOU on all those files, told Ben I love him. I’d have finally gone on that holiday to Egypt. I’d have done so much _more_. I’d have put my name in for the X Factor, even though it’d probably get me fired.”

“I couldn’t,” the boy said. “Believe me, I really couldn’t.” He tucked his arm through Q’s. “You don’t have to go to the same place. You can go wherever you like.” 

“Go?” 

“Yes,” said Q, helping George out of the rubble. “There you are, old boy. We’re on our way to the afterlife.” 

George pursed his lips. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not, really,” he said. 

“Is that any way to think?” asked Sandra. 

“Depends if you’re being cuckolded, Sandy,” he said. “If I’m on my way to the afterlife, why do I feel so alive?” 

“Lil,” said the boy from Q branch, helping Loelia Ponsonby to her feet, seemingly from under a large amount of plaster. “How are you feeling?” 

“That wasn’t a bomb, was it?” asked Loelia. “That was a gas explosion. I smelled the gas just before —”

“I don’t know what it was,” said the boy. 

“I’m going down to the server room to check,” said Loelia, and she jumped onto the elevator. 

Strange, thought Sandra, that the elevator was still working. She moved to get on, but Q took her arm. 

“No, love,” he said. “I think there’s something else for you.” 

“Yes,” said the boy, with a sad look. 

“I hope the afterlife is more exciting than the server room,” said Q, with a grin. “Come on, both of you, why are you looking like a pair of wet weekends?” 

“I’m going to miss you,” said the boy. “There’s more people on the floor below — we’ll take the stairs.” 

They took the stairs, and none of the people responding to the blast even looked twice at them as they moved through the room. That, more than anything else, convinced her that she was dead — not once had she got onto a secure floor without being checked and re-checked, her handbag checked and her shoes checked, and if you had a mobile phone in the building, that counted as a security breach, and blah-blah-blah. Sandra was glad her afterlife wasn’t in the server room — she didn’t want to be trapped in here after death as well as during life. 

Simon and Jim were together, huddled in under a desk, and she helped them out, hugging Jim as she got him to his feet. She’d always rather admired Jim — he was the protective, strong type. He’d served in the Gulf War and was missing an arm, his prosthesis shiny-smooth under his shirtsleeves. 

Only now he was looking at both of his pink, bare hands and wriggling his fingers like he couldn’t believe it. 

“So we are really dead,” said Jim, looking up at Q. 

“Yes,” said Q. “And Quentin’s going to help us get to the afterlife.” 

Q was looking very brave, that kind of shiny courage that people get when they’re really terrified, and they know that if they stop, they’ll collapse and never get up. Sandra felt a lot like collapsing and never getting up, but she held her head high — so she’d died in a bomb blast? She supposed it was too late to reconcile herself with wherever she was going next. 

“Is it a nice afterlife?” asked Jim, a little timidly. 

“It’s what you make of it,” said Quentin, the boy from Q branch. She’d never heard his name before — she supposed it was apt. “But yes, I think for almost everyone, it’s a nice afterlife.” 

“Even whoever set this bomb?” asked Jim.

“No,” said Quentin. “To set a bomb like this, there’s something wrong with…” He frowned. “I hesitate to call it a soul, but the eternal part of you.” 

“Ah,” said Jim. “Good, then.” 

Quentin shrugged. “Every monster was human once,” he said, quietly, and Boothroyd put a fatherly arm around him. 

“Come on, lad,” he said. “It’s not that bad.” 

They made their way through the thronging crowds as silently as ghosts — which was, Sandra supposed, what they were. They made their way down to the road, ignoring the cameras and the roadblocks and the whirring helicopters overhead. A car pulled up to the kerb, pale and ghostly in the dull grey London light. It was rocket-powered, all shiny and cool, with stars and lightning bolts up its sides. It looked like the dream toy of a little boy obsessed with speed racing; it probably went at 300 miles an hour. 

“I think that’s me, then,” said Q, with a tight, brave smile. 

“You do go to somewhere better,” said the boy. “I promise you. You do. I don’t know much about what happens after death, but I do know that.” 

“Then why haven’t you gone, lad?” asked Q. 

“I would if I could,” said the boy. “I’d go in a heartbeat.” He hugged Q again. “I’m going to miss you.” 

“No you won’t,” said Q. “You’ll have better things to do.” 

“Really,” said the boy, and he squeezed Q tightly. “I’m going to miss you so much.” 

“I’m sure you’re not meant to say that,” said Q. 

“I’m not,” said the boy. “Have fun, old man.” 

“I’m younger than you!” said Q, and he got into the car, tyres squealing as he belted off down the road into nothing. 

“Do we all get a car?” asked Simon-from-accounts. 

“It’s different for everyone,” said the boy. “What would you like?” 

A limousine pulled up, and somewhere, flashbulbs popped. She looked down, and her dress had gone sparkly, like fish scales; the door of the limo was open, waiting for her. 

“I think that’s me,” said Sandra, because it was ripped straight from her daydreams. 

“Do you need a hand?” asked the boy. 

“I’m fine,” she said, walking forward on sky-high shoes, not wobbling for a second. “Are you going to come along? Simon? Jim?” 

“No,” Jim said. “Your adventures are your own.” 

“Yes,” she said, climbing into the car. “This _shall_ be an adventure.” 

He laughed, then, a kind laugh, and shut the door for her. She picked up a glass of champagne, and watched out of the window as the car left the scene. Behind her, there were sirens, people screaming, news choppers and all sorts, all the trappings of the modern world, MI6 and the Thames and everything. 

Sandra smiled to herself, and took another mouthful of champagne. 

She didn’t look back. 

 

_________

 

“We need you to step into your old position,” M said, the words tasting like bile in her mouth. 

“I know,” the boy said. He looked as wrecked as she felt. “I’m sorry.” 

“Q,” she said. 

He met her eyes; he’d been crying. Interesting. 

“M.” 

 

_________

 

Felix was on assignment in Turkey. One would never know that the whole stupid thing with the sharks happened, now; he walked well on a carbon fibre leg, and Bond knew he’d pushed to get back out into the field as quickly as possible. He was a friend, and Bond needed friends. 

“What the hell happened to you?” Felix asked, when he saw Bond, but he drew him into a fraternal hug anyway, clapping his good hand against Bond’s back. “You look like shit.” 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Bond, with a half-mad grin, and Felix patted his cheek. 

“You sorry son of a bitch,” he said. “Come and have a drink, and tell me why you’re not in England chasing down whoever took out your guys.”

“I need to get back to England,” said Bond. “Would you mind giving me a lift to Ankara?” 

“Anywhere,” said Felix. “You name it. My boys are telling me they want me in England after this job; you’d better get ready to take me out for a good meal.” 

“Spying on us, then?” asked Bond. “I need to get back sooner.” 

Felix snorted. “I know what Agent Ronson lost,” he said. “I’ve just gotta prove it.” 

“It wasn’t Ronson,” said Bond, but he said no more. 

Felix didn’t press him after a while — Felix presumably inferred what that meant — but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he dragged Bond back to his room and made him sleep, organised him a ride on a private flight back to England, and ordered room service. He even loaned Bond a shirt, which didn’t fit all that well, but it was clean and pressed, and Bond felt human for the first time since he’d got shot.

“What’s that?” asked Felix, pointing at Bond’s shoulder as he changed. 

“That’s what made MI6 think I was dead,” said Bond, because the bullet hole from Eve’s shot had vanished when he woke up, but the bullet trapped in his shoulder was still red and throbbing. He’d have to do something about that, he thought. 

“That’s how you lost the names, isn’t it?” asked Felix. 

“You know I can’t tell you that,” said Bond. 

“Do you know who’s on the list?” asked Felix. 

“I never looked at it,” said Bond. He buttoned the shirt. “I never got a chance to.” 

“I know some of the names,” said Felix. “And I know it’s going to keep me busy for the next few months.” 

“If I could have—” said Bond, although he wasn’t entirely sure that he could have got the hard drive back, and the names. 

“I know,” said Felix. “I know some of the names, and nothing in the world will keep them safe.” He leaned back. “Still, it’s what we signed up for, right?” 

“I don’t remember signing up for this,” said Bond, because Felix was a better friend than practically anybody else in the world; and because he knew that Felix had no idea what he was really referring to. 

“Someone’s gotta do it,” said Felix. “I’ll drop you at the airport.” He chuckled. “The things I do for you.” 

“I appreciate it all,” said Bond, sincerely. “You know I’ll reciprocate.” 

“I know,” said Felix. “Reciprocate by getting that hard drive back. I’m on a recovery mission these next two weeks, and I don’t want it to go on for any longer.” 

 

_________

 

1945, England. It was a pleasant enough day — people don’t always die in the rain, and they don’t always die with drama and pathos. There’s deaths that happen on a day with crisp blue skies and fluffy clouds so ridiculously perfect that no painter would try to replicate them for fear of being labelled a fraud.

“I’ll see you later,” said Quentin, with a warm smile. 

Ned was all kitted out for a nice ride — he had too-big goggles, which made him look mawkishly adorable, and leather gloves, and such a bright smile that for a few sharp seconds Quentin nearly told him to stop, nearly wrapped him in a hug and refused to let him go. The only thing that didn’t let him was the worst memory he owned — John, drowning on the red froth from his own lungs, Q refusing to let him die, and then everything, every gut-wrenching thing that had happened after. 

The smell of petrol filled the air between them as he patted Ned’s cheek. “Don’t you get up to no good.” 

“I’m always up to no good,” said Ned, lightly, but he reached out to grip Quentin’s hand, pressing a chaste kiss (always a chaste kiss) to the palm before releasing him. “Don’t wait up for me, darling.” 

Quentin watched him go. He followed, not long after, on his own bike. He wasn’t there for the accident — thank goodness — but he was there to collect Ned from the side of the road, to look at his body, still breathing but nothing there inside it. All that Ned was stood beside Q in the shadow-world, gravelings picking curiously over the remains of the bike. Q wondered if they’d caused the accident. 

“Is that me?” asked Ned, curious as ever. 

“Yes,” said Quentin, putting both arms around him, desperate to make sure he was still there. 

“I always thought I’d have a more noble end than that,” he said, a little sadly; he broke free, and took a few steps towards his corpse, so much meat now that his spirit was gone. “And how about you, Q? Why are you still with me?” 

“Sometimes people die, and it’s very simple,” said Q. 

“Yes,” said Ned. “And sometimes it’s very complicated, or nasty, and things don’t go as you planned.” 

“Yes,” said Q. “There’s something I need to tell you.” He brushed an affectionate hand over Ned’s hair. “Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it.” 

They wound up curled together on the big couch at Q’s place, sharing a cigarette, limbs tangled as Q explained and Ned, ever the adventurer, listened and occasionally shivered with something approaching delight. In the next few decades, they lived together on and off, but Ned Lawrence was a man who couldn’t be caged, and Q was no gaoler. Still, there was comfort in each other, and when Ned had gone East for the last time, Q had felt like part of himself was being torn away, leaving a rawness behind that couldn’t be soothed. 

Q wondered how many more times he could be left alone before he grew too lonely to continue. 

 

_________

 

Bond was in her flat. M knew it from the second that she walked in — a slight chill announced that a window was open, and the new Q had reported the man coming in through Heathrow earlier in the day, no attempt to disguise himself once he’d snuck in as cargo on a celebrity’s chartered plane. 

Perhaps he wanted to be picked up, like a petulant child. 

“You took your time,” she said, catching sight of his silhouette in the corner. 

“I’ve been enjoying death,” he replied, and her breath caught in her throat at that. Did he know? Did he understand that’s why she’d told Eve to take the shot? 

“And you didn’t stay dead,” she said, testing the waters. 

“And I didn’t stay dead,” he echoed. “You should have known that I’d find my way back here. Ma’am.” 

“I had to balance our priorities,” she said. 

Did he understand? Could he understand? Doubtful. 

“Nice to know I’m the dead weight, then,” he said. 

“Stop it,” she told him. “You’re acting like a child, and I won’t have it. Not from you. You’re not a bloody schoolboy; you get in, you do your job, you return home. Sometimes you don’t return home, but in your case I can’t tell whether it’s because you’re gone for good, or whether you’ll have the sense to stay dead when you get given the chance.” 

She did love him, in a way. Not sex, though God, she could probably force him down onto her bed and he wouldn’t say no — no, not sex, just a dizzying love that would last through almost every stupid thing that he did. She thought he might love her in return — it was her house that Bond had broken into, rather than trying to break into a flat that was no longer his. 

She hadn’t been fast enough to stop Tanner and Eve selling off Bond’s personal effects — and part of her honestly hadn’t expected him to return, no matter what the boy Q had said. 

“We sold your flat,” she said, into the silence that was stretching between them. “Stay dead, next time. Take the way out when it’s offered.” 

“Nice to know you care,” he replied. 

“I’m doing you a favour,” she said. “Stay dead. But since you’re here, I’ll expect you at HQ tomorrow morning.” 

“And where am I to stay, if I don’t have a flat?” he asked. “I suppose you at least put the money into trust.” 

“Tanner can give you the details,” she said, and she could almost open up her home to him, but she feared he’d never leave. She feared, too, what Mallory would do with the information that Bond was staying with her. “You can afford to stay anywhere you like.” 

“Here, then.” 

“No,” she said. “Get out of my house.” 

Conflict of interest; housing an agent while calling his shots. She couldn’t do that — she couldn’t do it to him, and once he was thinking more clearly, he’d realise that he couldn’t do it to her. It was easier this way. 

He saluted, his expression a perfect _fuck you_ without words. 

“It’s easier this way, and you know it,” she said to his back. He didn’t turn his collar up against the weather as he walked out onto the road, hailing a taxi with one hand as he dialled what had to be Tanner’s number with the other. 

 

_________

 

Bond was quickly remembering why he’d stayed dead for so many months. Tanner had given him back control of his bank accounts; there was a _lot_ of money in one of them, much more than his flat, so Bond wondered what else M had sold in his name. And things back at Legoland had changed, too — they were stuck in Churchill’s war tunnels, with the incongruent combination of bright halogen floodlights, glass walls and cables filling the space that was still the home of rats and damp (and once been the home of odd decadence during the war, but nobody ever talked about that.) 

Some things didn’t change, though — Q branch was just as peculiar as ever. Bond could have met the new Q in a tunnel; hell, he could even have met the new Q in a park, but no, it was a gallery, public and hushed. They met under Turner; the new Q made a few obvious comments about age and youth, and then turned everything on its head when he turned to Bond and said: 

“How are your tests going? You’re unlikely to pass a physical in the way they want you to.” 

“Charming,” said Bond. 

“No,” said Q. “I mean — your physiology has changed. The machines can’t work out what to do with you.” 

That piqued his interest. “What do you know about my physiology?” he asked. 

Q took Bond’s hand; his fingers were cold as he pressed Bond’s fingertips to the artery in his own neck. Bond felt the movement of Q’s throat when he swallowed, and a heavy, irregular pulse. It was a familiar beat — it was like Bond’s own since Syria. The man was just his type, he realised — he’d been so fixated on how young and annoying he was and he hadn’t realised how under the coat and the arrogance the new Q was very, very easy on the eyes. Bond hadn’t slept with a man off-mission since he was not much older than this new Q, but for the first time since he’d died, he found himself desiring. 

“If I snapped your neck now, would you die?” asked Bond, letting his fingers stray over Q’s pale, smooth throat. 

“I’d be very angry with you,” said Q, his windpipe vibrating as he spoke. “But no, I wouldn’t die. I’m like you.” 

“How many of us are there?” asked Bond. 

“Just us in MI6. There’s more across London, but they change fairly frequently,” said Q. “I’m the oldest Reaper in the city.” Bond didn’t move his hand. “You’ll start to get the names more regularly, I think.” He sighed. “You’re going to fail every test that they give you, and there’s nothing I can do about that. I can hack the databases, but I can’t hack the memories of the medical team.” 

“I’m not asking you to.” 

“You’re safer if no-one knows that you’re different,” said Q. “Trust me on that one.” 

“I don’t trust you,” said Bond, letting his fingers tighten, just a little. “Not yet.” 

“Your palm-coded gun doesn’t read your palm,” said Q. “That’s just the lie we give to most of the others. It reads who you are — what you are. Tanner and M know; the old Q knew. No-one else. Think about what you would have done if you’d found one of your fellow agents was keeping a secret like this?”

“I wouldn’t have believed them,” said Bond, letting Q go. “I still don’t believe in this.” 

“It exists,” said Q. 

“Then why have we got so little information about it?” 

“I have two theories,” said Q. “Are you familiar with the idea that belief can change reality?” 

“Yes,” said Bond. “The placebo effect? Or something deeper?” 

“There’s a lot of humans in the world,” said Q. “And we all want to believe we’re special; we all want to think we’re the hero of our own story. Perhaps they brought us into being — people who want that special personalised touch, right to the very end?” 

“That’s idiotic,” said Bond, because the boy looked deadly serious, and hadn’t they trained the Q-branch whelps better than this? 

“The other option is that there is some sort of supreme being,” said Q. “An anthropomorphised natural force that keeps its hands clean by using human agents to sweep up the souls. Something that does, despite all the odds, want us to move on to a comfortable place.” 

Bond met his eyes, then — for an instant, the young man looked terribly old. “What do you believe?” he asked. 

“What does it matter?” asked Q. “Either way, I’m stuck here.” He stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. His throat was red above his collar; it looked painful. “Be successful in both your jobs, Bond. Being the servant of two masters isn’t easy.” 

“Why do they even keep us on?” asked Bond, fascinated. 

“Because it’s safer than letting us go,” said Q. “Good luck. I’ll see you soon.” 

 

_________

 

Transcript of word association exercise: Agent 007 

Day / Wasted  
Agent / Provocateur  
Woman / Provocatrix  
M / Bitch  
England / Home  
Computers / Fallible  
Q / Problem  
Death / Nothing  
Gun / Shot  
Murder / Occupation  
Killing / Duty  
Country / Undiscovered  
Skyfall /  
Skyfall /  
Skyfall /  
/ Done. 

Recommendation: unfit for active duty. 

 

_________

 

Eve wasn’t silly; the people in her life tended to assume that because she was pretty, she was a little bit of an airhead, frustratingly, even in MI6. She liked Mallory because his assumption had tended more to _dangerous_ than silly — she watched the way he guarded himself and his opinions around her, and realised that he wasn’t just blocking her out because he thought she was another silly woman — he was blocking her out because he was wondering how she’d use what she knew against him. 

It was almost flattering. She was almost torn between loyalties, despite the fact that M had been kind to her, too kind, really, after Eve had shot Bond. She should have had to undergo more of a disciplinary process (00 agents being expensive to train and maintain), but instead, M had taken her out of the field and tucked her in close in the wake of Sandra’s death. Eve had a far higher security clearance than Sandra had ever been allowed, though, so she found herself taking on some of Tanner’s load — making things lighter for him made the permanent frown on his face a bit more temporary. Both of them had been run off their feet engaging contractors to fix the building, organising security detail for them, ordering supplies for Q branch to set up in the tunnels (and wow, hadn’t Q done a good job of lighting the draughty old WWII bunkers), organising heaters so that everyone didn’t freeze their arses off, furniture, printers, cabling, everything. 

She’d actually quite enjoyed it. Eve, Tanner, and the kids from Q-branch were the only ones who really had any idea of how to navigate in the rat run of tunnels; Q particularly seemed to have an uncanny sense of where to run cables, where old wires and setups would suffice, and even where the water table had made its way up into old brickwork. She’d never really paid much attention to Q when he’d been a nameless drone in R&D, but now she quite enjoyed his company. 

M was a little frosty towards him; Eve hadn’t got to the bottom of that, yet. They seemed to tolerate each other well enough, but there was a tautness between them — a threat that was never quite voiced, but it was certainly present under all of their interactions. Still, he’d been invaluable in their tunnel setup, and Eve was always one to use every resource at her disposal. That’s how she’d become a field agent. That’s how she’d become assigned to Bond. 

Bond. Her heart had stopped when she thought she’d shot him — he’d been her favourite partner in her brief field career, and he was such a legend of the SIS that she’d thought she was going to be ripped back down into whatever the contemporary version of the typing pool was. Helpdesk, probably. Or media liason. Ugh. 

She’d felt like belting him when he showed back up again — she’d lost sleep, dammit, and she’d lost face, and she’d felt like she’d lost everything for a while there. She’d felt a bit like hugging him, because he certainly looked like he needed a hug — his skin was dull and ashen, his eyes dark-circled. Instead, she’d teased him, trying to get a rise, worrying when he barely rose to the jibe, worrying when he didn’t flirt with her, when he didn’t act like the old Bond at all. She wondered what had happened to him in Turkey. 

Had he heard M giving her the directive to take the shot? Had he heard Eve panicking across his earpiece, the shock she’d barely been able to contain? 007 was an SIS legend. He wasn’t supposed to die. He seemed to be trying to kill himself now, though — Tanner said he’d been trying to brief the man while he underwent his compulsory physical, and Eve had been the one to collate the medical reports for M. 

“Palm-printed Walther,” said the new Q, when she went to see him. “That’s all I gave him for now.” 

“ _Why_?” she asked. “It’s not like he’s on active duty.” 

“You say that like he doesn’t attract trouble,” said Q. “I made a judgement call. If M wants to question it, then she can question me herself. We all know he’s going to be sent out after the hacker that destroyed the building.” 

“Not with the results he’s getting,” said Eve. “The man’s unstable, and you gave him a gun.” 

“I know what I’m doing,” said Q. 

She sighed. “Please tell me you haven’t been sucked into the charm of him. Look, I was a junior agent once, and I—” 

She honestly wanted to help him, but she saw in his expression that she hadn’t aimed right. Again. 

“I’m not a junior agent,” said Q. “I’m the MI6 quartermaster. Don’t you think I could resist the charms of a field agent if I wanted to?” He turned away from her, clearly pretending that the files on his desk were extremely important. “I gave him the gun because we took everything else away from him. I know what that feels like. I trust him to use it wisely.” 

“Q, I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. “He’s very…persuasive.” 

“I know,” said Q, looking up at her. “I’m not always easily persuaded. I’ll email you copies of the requisition form.” 

“And I’ll email you back M’s query letter,” said Eve, because she was not easily cowed. 

“Set up an appointment. She can query me to my face,” said Q. 

“Fine,” said Eve, and when she turned to leave, she realised that Bond was standing silently in the doorway; he’d clearly been exercising, from the dark sweat patches around his neck and arms, probably undergoing peak flow or heart-rate testing. She wondered how long he’d been there. “Bond.” 

“Eve,” he said. “Thank you for getting a decent price for my flat.” 

She felt her cheeks heat; too soon, they’d sold it too soon. “Not a problem,” she lied. 

“Did you come in here just to glower at me?” asked Q, from behind her. “Or did you need to see me about something?” 

“Just listening,” said Bond. “It’s amazing what you hear when you listen.” 

Above them, a shadow made its way through the light fitting. It caught Eve’s eye, just out of her peripheral vision, and then it was gone, quick as a wink. She looked back, and Bond had gone too; he’d vanished back into the tunnels, moving like a ghost. 

“Busted,” she said. 

Q snorted. “Indeed,” he said. “You’d better make that meeting. M’s going to be furious.” 

 

_________

 

“You gave him a gun,” said M. 

“Yes,” said Q. 

Her desk sat between them; in the bright halogen bulbs he’d installed, he looked as dead as he’d looked when she shot him for the first time. It was easy to forget what he was when he hid himself in dim server rooms and old tunnels, but she’d demanded light down here, light enough to illuminate the dark corners and leave nowhere to hide. Perhaps that had been a poor decision, because if Q looked like death warmed up, Bond looked like he’d spent three months in the grave. 

“We set up a meeting,” she said. “You were not instructed to equip him.” 

“I know,” said Q. “I took that decision. I read his older files, and I decided that given past experience, it was the best course of action.” 

“You should have cleared it with me,” she said. “I don’t need both of you acting out — I’m not running a school.” 

“Then stop treating us like children,” said Q. “Have you seen his results?” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“Are they as bad as we feared?” asked Q. 

“You’ll have hacked in and looked at them yourself, won’t you?” she asked. 

“Seal the file,” he said, leaning forward, as serious as she’d ever seen him. “Please; seal the file. I can’t help him if he’s an oddity — I can help him if he’s an agent past his prime, but not if people are watching and wondering about his preternatural abilities.” 

“Are you trying to protect him?” she asked, and the boy looked briefly away. 

“I suppose I am,” he said, and she thawed a little — she knew that she could be cruel to the boy sometimes, but he did seem to carry a soft heart under that dead white skin. “I like him.” 

“He’s dangerous,” she said. 

“I know,” said the boy. “But there’s very little anyone can do that will seriously hurt me, so I think I’m the best one to deal with him. Ma’am.” 

She remembered experiments to test his limits. “The way I dealt with you was logical at the time. We didn’t know what you were.” 

“You still don’t,” said the boy. “I’m asking you to suppress his results. I could do it electronically, but if you seal the file — make it officially vanish — then the medical techs won’t speak about it either.” 

“Why?” she asked. 

“So that they don’t do to him what you did to me,” said the boy. “Nobody lives forever — you can’t protect him forever.” 

“You’re planning to try,” she said. 

He shrugged. “I like him,” he said. “And I don’t particularly want him to leave. Not just yet.” 

“Leave?” she asked. “We’ll have to throw him out when we don’t want him anymore.” 

Q stood. “Loyalty.” 

“To country,” she said. “Not to you, or me, or any of this. To country.” 

“You don’t think he cares about you?” asked Q. 

_M. Bitch._ “He doesn’t care about anyone,” she said. 

“I’ll take that under advisement,” said Q. “If you’ll excuse me. I’ve got a hacker to trace.” 

 

_________

 

Shona wore bright neon legwarmers to their pub date, because her taste had become mired sometime in her youth (she’d died in the 80s, which wasn’t a bad decade to die in), and she was frankly _delighted_ to see fashion turning on its head and the shoulderpads and lime green of her teen years being repeated on London’s streets now they were in the new millennium. 

She’d been busy lately. It was obvious that Q wasn’t on the job as much — he’d said something about a new reaper, and she wondered if he’d been finally allowed to go. Poor boy always looked so tired and downtrodden; she fed him whenever she saw him, but they weren’t friends, and they couldn’t be friends. They’d tried, but it had ended in a spectacular series of fights, and now they kept away from each other unless it was important — he looked downtrodden, she thought, because he liked death too much. He took the job too seriously. 

Still, they had drinks once every few months, and compared reapings. He brought the new reaper to their next meeting, and while the man was off at the bar, Shona leaned forward. 

“He’s gorgeous,” she said. “Do you really think that upstairs are going to let you go on to the good place? He’s your replacement, right?” 

“I don’t know,” said Q. “I’m afraid that I’m never going to get to go. He was Ned’s last one, not mine.” 

For a minute, he looked lost; less than a minute, only a few seconds. She put a hand over his. 

“I’m sorry.” 

The new reaper — Bond — returned with a bottle of wine and three glasses. He raised an eyebrow at their hands; jealousy? Something else? 

“He’s gayer than Liberace,” she said, giving the man an appraising look. 

Q wrinkled his nose. “Tasteless,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “Bond’s a co-worker, anyway.” 

“What kind of business do you do that can use two reapers?” she asked, because as far as she knew there were only ten reapers in the whole of Greater London, and that was only achievable with Q’s advances in taking souls through technology. She preferred doing it the old way. That was one of the things they’d fought about. 

“A messy one,” said Bond, pouring the wine. “So. Tell me more about this job, before I decide to tell the powers that be to shove it.” 

 

_________

 

The week’s frustration broke with a crash like thunder, like a tsunami rolling through him, all white horses and churning water. Bond let the anger carry him into M’s office, because she knew more than she was saying — little meetings with Q, even the reluctance to give him back a weapon. M didn’t even look surprised when he stood over her. 

“You know, don’t you?” asked Bond. 

He hadn’t asked for an appointment. He’d created one for himself, sweeping past Eve, uncaring that he was throwing out some mousy little analyst who’d practically squeaked when he was gently ushered out the door. Something Q had said, something in the mix, something had been enough to let on. _Take the bloody shot,_ he thought. _You bitch._

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, 007,” said M, looking up from a sequence of blueprints in front of her. “And you’ve just terrified one of Q-branch’s best designers. Congratulations; I’m sure your gun will fire especially well from now on.” 

“You _know,_ ” he said. “You told Eve to take that bloody shot because you knew I was already dead.” 

“Are you still sulking about that?” she asked. 

He pulled out the scalpel that he’d stolen from Medical — he tore the protective covering from it in one smooth movement. 

“Don’t let’s play games,” he said. “Let’s talk about why when I do this —“ He scored his palm, deeply. “My flesh does this.” The skin knitted back together as smoothly and seamlessly as if it had never been broken, just like it had on that first night in Syria.

“Yes,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I know.” 

“How long?” 

“Since it happened.” 

“Did Q tell you?” 

She gave him a withering look. “007, are you wilfully trying to appear stupid? Of course the boy told me.” She pulled together a pile of papers, shuffling them into a neat stack. “He’s trying to get me to suppress your abnormal test results. Should I, do you think? Or should I hand you over to Q-branch to explore your potential as a weapon of mass destruction?” 

“I’m dead,” he said. “What do I care?” 

It was oddly touching that Q was trying to suppress his results; Bond had got used to Q following him about whenever he could like a slender and endlessly patient shadow. Of course, Q had his own branch, his own work, his own reapings to do, but he did seem to like to try to make things more comfortable for Bond. He’d even taken them out for stilted drinks with another reaper — a pretty girl who was cagey about what she actually did. More secrets, he thought, and he’d go mad. 

“You can still bleed,” M said, after an awkward pause. “I imagine there are things that still matter to you. Melodrama, for one.” 

“There are things that still matter,” he said. “My country being one of them.” Serious. Deadly serious. 

“Then I’d better suppress these results,” she replied. “And you’d better not draw too much more attention to yourself, because there are some things that even I can’t change.” 

He exhaled. “And when I’m called to take a soul?” 

“You take it,” she said. “And you hope to God it’s not one of ours.” 

 

_________

 

Q felt safe surrounded by his nice humming servers — he’d worked on computing since its inception, and he felt that he understood the machines intimately. He’d never have children, he’d never have a family again, he’d never have any of the comforts of humanity, so he poured his love into his inventions. He’d got everything down in the old bunkers the way he liked it after such a short time — he was proud of that, of his adaptability. 

The gravelings hadn’t taken long to get into the tunnels, though, and there was a big fat one sitting on the top of the server racks. He’d seen it hundreds of times before — sometimes it seemed to follow him around. There was no strict prohibition about interactions between reapers and gravelings, but they maintained more of an uneasy truce than a relationship, because gravelings did everything they could to cause terrible accidents. The plump graveling destroyed things, jammed guns, made explosions fire early, but evidence of their truce played out in the way that it had untied Q the last time he was kidnapped — and going back further, in the way it had been in the gang of gravelings that had helped Q get free when MI6 had imprisoned him. Q didn’t kick it anymore, and that was probably a truce from its point of view (he’d kicked them at first; he’d thought that they were what had sent John mad, led his feet to that dark path, but as he grew older, he realised that John had probably found that path by himself).

“Don’t you mess with my computers,” he told the graveling. It jabbered at him, catching his attention, hopping back and forth on its clawed little feet. If, out of the corner of his eye, Q saw something shiny and smoky run long his beautiful new cabling, he was too busy trying to catch the graveling to do anything more about it. 

 

_________

 

From: M@universalexports.co.uk  
To: Q@Qbranch.gov.uk  
Subject: Suggestion

Do something about Bond; he’s just come up and bled all over my office for no discernible reason other than he’s having a tantrum. 

 

From: q@qbranch.gov.uk  
To: m@universalexports.co.uk  
Subject: Re: Suggestion

That’s almost permission, isn’t it? 

 

From: M@universalexports.co.uk  
To: Q@Qbranch.gov.uk  
Subject: Re: Re: Suggestion

Don’t make me tell you twice. 

 

_________

 

Footsteps echoed in the new communal bathroom of the MI6 temporary quarters — Bond ignored them and kept at what he was doing. He’d had enough of explaining himself to people who wanted to poke, prod and categorise him. 

“Bond,” said Q, from behind him. “What are you doing?” 

“I can’t shoot straight,” said Bond, as a long run of blood dripped down his chest. “My arm.” 

He’d cut his own shoulder open with the clean blade, sharp and brightly painful. He’d wanted pain; he was disappointed that the bloom of colour it brought was curtailed quickly by the way this new, horrible body healed. 

“Will you stop drawing attention to yourself?” asked Q, as Bond dug into the messy wound, fingernail catching on a piece of shrapnel. He drew it out with a warm sense of triumph. “The grandstanding in M’s office was bad enough — now you’re slashing open your own shoulder? For what? Some cry for help?” 

“No,” said Bond, ignoring Q to focus on the pain. “There’s shrapnel in my shoulder.” 

“You’re dead,” said Q, who had clearly planned some big dramatic speech and was probably going to follow through. Big dramatic speakers usually did. “You can’t die again, no matter how much of a mess you make of yourself, because you died in the blast in Syria.” He took a step forward. “You were Ned’s last one.” 

That caught Bond’s attention; some clue, any clue, to what had really happened to him. Was there a quota before you passed on? He could fill a quota.

“You knew Ned,” he said, picking out another piece of shrapnel. 

“You could say that,” said Q. “We were…brothers, of a sort.” 

Realisation dawned. _Darling, don’t say that._ “You were lovers.” 

“No,” said Q. “He didn’t go in for that.” Q smiled a little secretive smile. “He liked to be close, but not to fuck. They’ve got a word for that these days.”

“They’ve got a word for everything,” said Bond, dismissively. “Including, apparently, me. I’m dead; but I’m still walking. Why am I still walking? You haven’t managed to give me a satisfactory answer to that yet.” 

“Because your country needs you,” said Q. 

“Please tell me that you didn’t fall for that line,” said Bond, and the bitterness that had been lodged in his chest for months was spewing from his mouth, uncontrollable. “You’re not five years old.” 

“No,” said Q, cocking his head just a little. “I’ve been in the organisation a very long time. I was the first quartermaster; I took on the title of Q then, and I quite liked it, so I kept it. It was a little joke, really; all of us who were letters just used one of the letters in our names, but then as the place grew, people wanted to use the whole alphabet. It’s been so long that I don’t think I feel like a Quentin anymore.” 

“You’re a melodramatic little shit,” said Bond. “You like yourself as a myth.” 

“Everyone likes themselves as a myth,” said Q. “Give me the scalpel.” 

Bond handed him the knife, because really, what could Q do to him that the world already hadn’t? It didn’t hurt that Q was lovely to behold — he liked beautiful, damaged creatures like this, sometimes too much. 

“It doesn’t hurt like it used to,” he said, because sometimes he liked to hurt, and he didn’t want to have to destroy his body just to hurt. 

“It hurts in other ways,” said Q, putting a palm flat on Bond’s chest. “In here.” 

“I’d prefer the physical pain,” said Bond, as Q moved to his shoulder, digging into the wound in silent acknowledgement of Bond’s request. 

“I get melodramatic,” said Q, haltingly, “because I’m alone. I can’t even keep Shona around; I couldn’t even entice Ned to stay with me.” His fingers were slippery with blood as he set another piece of shrapnel down. “It makes things easier if I think of myself as the stoic hero of my story.” 

Bond didn’t say _you complain too much to be stoic_ ; he grunted happily when Q put pressure on the wound in his shoulder. 

“Drawing attention to yourself is a bad idea,” said Q, picking out another piece of shrapnel. “We still work for MI6.” 

“How can… _death_ …take sides in a war?” asked Bond. 

Q put the scalpel down. 

“It doesn’t,” Q replied. “People like us exist on each side.” He smiled. “Everyone dies, James. Even terrorists.”

“So we’re glorified janitors,” said Bond.

“Footmen, I suppose,” said Q. “Tour guides.” 

“No,” said Bond. “At least a tour guide gets to go to the bloody place themselves. If I was supposed to die, I want to die. None of this shit. I can’t get decently drunk. I can’t fuck, because people know there’s something wrong with me; even that reaper girl looked at me like I was a sack of dead meat. This shit in my shoulder barely even hurts unless you’re pressing right on it.” 

“You’re acting like this isn’t my life,” said Q. “Like this hasn’t been my life for longer than you’ve even existed.” He peered at the bloody mess of Bond’s shoulder. “I think we’re done, unless you want me to tear into it some more just so you can feel martyred.” 

“Q,” said Bond, tipping Q’s head up with his free hand. “If Ned had agreed, would you have been lovers?” 

“Yes,” said Q, his cool fingers worrying at the wound even as his eyes met Bond’s. “But he didn’t want that, and I loved him the way he was. Come back and tell me you’re desperate when you’ve gone years without, not weeks.” 

Bond leaned forward, pressed their foreheads together. He felt Q’s hands begin to shake. 

“Do mortals always notice that you’re not like them?” asked Bond. 

“Eventually,” said Q. “And being with someone will draw them to the attention of the gravelings, if not death itself.” He swallowed. “It’s easier not to. I don’t like burying people.” 

“So do you like to be close, but not to fuck?” 

“I like to do both,” said Q, sliding his hand down Bond’s chest. Bond could feel the blood drying as he did it, and the wound in his shoulder healing. “We must have got all of the shrapnel.” 

Bond was hard; in the right circumstances, pain turned him on, and when he had a beautiful young man painting his abdomen with his own blood, that was certainly a right enough circumstance to be going on with. 

“Do you understand what you’re offering?” asked Bond, as Q’s touch went feather-light and low. 

“I hope so,” said Q. 

They kissed — Bond wasn’t sure which of them had moved first, but they collided, sparked, and practically crawled into one another’s skin. He’d missed this, and Q’s breathy kisses were needy, his hands clutching first at Bond’s shoulders, then his face, blunt nails scratching through his hair; he let Bond pick him up, slim thighs settling around Bond’s hips. They fucked in the showers, the water running rust-brown as it washed off Bond’s blood, leaving his skin clear and fresh as new. After, Q curled up next to Bond in the back of a taxi returning to his hotel, resting close to him. 

_Did I understand what I was offering?_ Bond thought, looking at Q’s hair, at his fingers curled possessively in Bond’s scarf, the shine of streetlights playing over them as they drove in silence through the streets of London. _Or have I just made things indescribably worse?_

 

__________

 

M seemed to spend more time in other people’s offices these days than she did in her own; the office in the bunker reminded her intensely of a large fishbowl, but it was hers and she was insisting that people met her there. Q had placed her ceramic bulldog onto the desk on his first visit, looking apologetic as he did it, but she was glad he had, like planting a flag on virgin soil, possession and possessed. 

Mallory didn’t see the world that way. She wondered if anyone much did, anymore. He saw the world as little conglomerations of people, the electricity of interactions that passed between them, completely ignoring the ground under his feet. He’d insisted on meeting in his office this time — she didn’t think it was about territory, but rather about the people who could and couldn’t listen in. 

Her people hadn’t yet managed to tap into Mallory’s office. They’d been rather preoccupied with moving. 

“I’ll cut to the chase; we’re both busy people,” Mallory said, pleasantly. 

“We are,” she said. “What’s this about?” 

“I know that Bond didn’t pass those tests,” said Mallory, pouring her a drink. “It would be convenient, wouldn’t it? If he just fell in the field; if his nine lives ran out.” 

“That’s not what I want,” said M. 

“Then I don’t understand why you sent him out to die,” said Mallory. 

“I sent him out to die,” said M, “because he is already dead.” 

“Poetic,” said Mallory. 

“You’re not going to force me out of this job,” said M. “You wouldn’t have the first idea what to do with Bond.” 

Not that she had the first idea what to do with Bond, she thought grimly. But he was her agent, her stupid, stubborn agent, not Mallory’s. 

“I’m not going to have to, if you get an agent killed whilst you’re appearing in front of an inquiry,” he replied. “You won’t fall; you’ll be pushed.” 

“As opposed to your intentions,” she said. 

He smiled. “Think of me as offering a parachute.” 

“I’ll pack my own parachute, thank you,” she said, trusting that she didn’t sound as bitter as she felt. 

 

__________

 

Tanner hadn’t surprised Bond when he’d shown up with a name and a mission — he’d received the email that morning, name, location, and he’d known that he needed to be halfway across the world by tomorrow, and to somehow figure out how to take a soul from an assassin. It was almost a relief when Tanner told him it was the name of a mark — the mark who’d shot a depleted uranium bullet into Bond’s shoulder, the radioactive material enough to slow his healing. They’d checked it out in the labs, all above board, all progressing the way it should. 

Q outfitted him; he checked Bond’s gun, and gave him a tiny radio. 

“A radio,” said Bond, looking at it. “So now that I’m dead, I get less?” 

“You get what you need,” said Q, and Bond slipped the radio into his pocket. “For both jobs. I could give you an exploding pen, but what’s the point? Chances are you’ll end up caught in the explosion, and the healing period can be…protracted.” 

“You’ll have to teach me how to take a soul through the phone system,” said Bond. 

“You’ll have to learn to take them manually first,” said Q. “There’s a feeling to it — a sense of how it works, when to take them.” 

“This would be a lot easier if you’d come into the field with me and show me how it works.” 

“It would be,” Q agreed. “But only you got the email. I’ve got reapings of my own.” 

“Do their emails go through our system?” asked Bond. 

“Not unless you’re stupid enough to reply,” said Q. “Then it’ll go through our normal screening.” 

“So MI6 don’t know who is going to die,” said Bond. 

“No,” said Q. “They don’t.” He took Bond’s hands in both of his own. “You’re going to reap your mark, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” said Bond. 

“It doesn’t mean you’ll be the one to kill him,” said Q, running his thumbs over Bond’s skin. “I want you to come back.” 

Bond could have been angry with him for the warning — he wasn’t a child, and he wasn’t incompetent — but he thought about how Q had looked asleep, and about the frankly ridiculous breakfast that Q had made for them both, his sheer unbridled delight at serving up bacon and french toast and little roasted tomatoes that had burst sweetly when Bond bit into them. He’d been so happy, in that moment, that he could still eat. Q _did_ want Bond to come back; you didn’t make a breakfast like that for a one-night thing. He nodded. 

“I’ll come back,” he said, leaning in to kiss Q.

Q chased the kiss, and Bond had forgotten what it was like to have an adoring partner — usually his partners expected to be adored. Because he wasn’t expecting it, found himself leaning back in. What he had with Q was that first flush of physicality, and after months where nothing and no-one had worked, it was intoxicating. 

“I’ll come back,” he said, again, absurd confidence springing in his chest. “You watch.” 

“I will be,” said Q, with a faint, knowing smile. He patted James on the chest, and then tapped his own ear. “I’ll be with you as long as I can.” 

 

__________

 

In the end, it was just like any other job. Spot the mark, track him through the building, hide in the shadows. Realise that there was something bigger going on than he’d previously suspected — but there was always something bigger going on when James was sent out for a minor matter, because his time and skills were too valuable to waste on a relatively minor matter. 

He watched the setup for the assassination dispassionately — he hadn’t been warned to take the victim’s soul. He wondered if there was anyone who would, or if the man had been taken even before he entered the building. It didn’t occur to him until later that he had far more tools at his disposal now — that he could have rushed the guy, taken the damage, stopped the assassination. Or would that disturb the universe too much, like throwing a rock into a pond and watching the ripples flutter, fish vanish? He’d have to ask Q. James rather fancied the idea of being a rock. 

When he did get enough sense into his head to fight, they grappled. It was a trick on Bond’s part — they touched, just before the man fell; just enough that seconds after the sound of a definitive splat on the concrete below, Bond felt eyes on him. 

“I see,” said Patrice.

Bond had made eye contact with the woman across the way — he wondered if she were another Reaper. She certainly didn’t seem perturbed by the death, or by Bond in the shadows, taking her assassin out ahead of the game. 

“You’re dead,” said Bond, and to his credit, Patrice did try to shove him out the great gaping hole in the side of the building, but his hands went right through Bond’s shoulder. “Stop that, it won’t help. You’re dead.” 

“Mother _fucker_ ,” said Patrice.

“Watch your mouth,” said Bond, opening the case that had contained Patrice’s gun. “Ah. And I suppose this chip will get me a lot of money, will it?” 

“I was going to retire.” Bond refused to feel guilty. “I was going to retire on it, and you shoved me down a skyscraper.” 

“Think of this as retirement,” said Bond, as behind them, the suite shimmered and turned gold. “Just one where you don’t have to kill anyone to get in.” 

“What did you do?” 

“I didn’t do anything,” said Bond, which was the truth, and he hung back while Patrice made his way through the golden door. Instinct told him that there was no return from wherever the man was going, and he had no intentions of sharing the afterlife with a murderer. A murderer. As if Bond hadn’t just killed the man. This was going to be more complex than he’d thought. 

He pocketed the chip, and slipped out of the building just as the emergency services arrived. He thought he might have seen a graveling out of the corner of his eye, but shrugged. He knew who had done the damage here tonight, and it wasn’t gravelings; the chip sat heavy in his pocket as he got into his car, driving back to the hotel, making a beeline for the bar. He’d need backup, if he was going in to a specialty casino. 

He finished his martini as he sent off the request, and then ordered another. The bar wasn’t downmarket enough to have a television in the front room, but he could almost feel the news reports as emergency services zipped along the streets. He looked at his phone when it buzzed, and frowned. A new name. A woman’s name. 

Oh well. He supposed he’d find out who she was, soon enough. 

 

_________

 

“I’ll go,” said Eve. 

“No. I will,” said Q.

“You hate flying,” said Eve. 

“You’ll both go,” said M. “If this Silva is as dangerous as intel is saying, we’ll need all hands on deck.” She laced her fingers together, resting her hands on the files in front of her. “Eve, try not to shoot him again; he doesn’t take it well. Q, I’m sure you know what you need to do.” 

He did. He feared what might be happening to Bond — how he might have reacted to having to kill and reap — and he was so determined to make this work. So Q and Eve ended up on a plane together, the first available seats on the first available flight, which meant economy rather than business class. Flying terrified Q on some primal level — he liked bikes, was nervy around cars, and hated planes. They were so foreign, so fast, and he’d been called to plane crashes before and the devastation of a plane crash was horrifying, always horrifying. But he knew he couldn’t die, and that gave him enough steel to make his way onto the plane, enough guts to down enough sedatives to kill a horse (no, really, that was the only way he could get them to work) and close his eyes, fists clenched tightly, while Eve tucked a blanket over him. 

“You really don’t like flying,” she said, brushing his hair back. “Which means you’re really, _really_ fond of Bond, doesn’t it?”

“Let me sleep in peace,” said Q. 

“I’m worried about how many pills you took,” she said.

“I’m fine,” he replied, and then she did something that he wasn’t expecting — she raised the armrest between them and arranged them both so that he was cuddled up to her. 

“I’m very fond of him,” she said, putting an arm around him. “Here, lean on me, you won’t wake up as stiff and sore if you’ve got a little more room.” He did, and she petted his hair a little. “He was part of the team that extracted me from my first bad field mission.” 

“Mmm?” asked Q. Of course, agent training — affection and a little personal information, designed to disarm the target and get them to reveal anything you wanted them to. He made the pre-emptive decision not to be disarmed. 

Eve nodded. “And then I thanked him by shooting him on the next one.” 

“I don’t think that was your fault,” said Q. “M knew precisely what would happen when she gave you that order.” 

“So why did she do it?” asked Eve. “If she knew I’d hit him?”

“She’s one of those very rare people who puts duty ahead of love,” said Q. “I like her; we’ve never seen eye to eye, but I respect her.” 

“You’re starting to ramble,” said Eve.

“Good,” said Q, as the plane rumbled through some turbulence, like a truck driving on a bumpy road. “That means these things will knock me out soon.” 

“I think Bond really does like you, too,” said Eve, as Q finally slipped under. 

He half-woke a few times during the trip — mostly to see Eve resting her book on her lap, turbulence rattling his teeth and making his stomach churn. She’d tucked a blanket over herself, too, at some point, and rested her cheek on the top of his head. It was as if she’d decided that he absolutely wasn’t dangerous. 

Once on the ground, they made their way to the hotel, and Eve went to meet with Bond while Q cleaned himself up — he was sweat-sticky from fear, shaky from the tablets. Being dead helped with the big things, but it didn’t eliminate every nasty part of life. He sighed under the shower, washing off the grime of the trip, wrapping a towel around his waist as he walked out to the bed where his suitcase lay open. 

He’d considered simply booking himself into Bond’s room, but he hadn’t known how Bond would take that, and he didn’t want to destroy things between them before they’d even begun. He’d destroy them soon enough anyway — Q held no illusions as to his long-term desirability. He rummaged for a shirt that wasn’t too crumpled, and then froze when warm hands grasped his hips, right where the towel met the skin. 

There was only one person who’d go for the hips and not the throat. Q leaned backward, and felt the heat of Bond’s broad chest against his back. 

“Bond,” he said, the air gone out of his lungs. 

“You let Eve provide me with room service,” said Bond, into his ear. “Is there something I should know?” 

Q felt his cheeks heat. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate being crowded.” 

“Yet you still came.” 

“I didn’t know how — how you’d feel,” he said. “Your first kill-and-reap. I threw up for three days after mine; the man was so meek and frightened, and I couldn’t believe what I’d done.” 

“I’m a trained killer,” said Bond, kissing his shoulder. “This is what I do.” 

“I know,” said Q. “But I came, didn’t I?” 

“You think I’m your responsibility,” said Bond. 

“No,” said Q, completely unconvincingly — he could hear it in his own voice. 

“A little hubris, yes?” asked Bond. “Thinking that you’re worthy of it.” 

“You think I’m not?” 

“I didn’t say that,” Bond replied. “But you think I’m a bargaining chip?” 

“Bond,” said Q, turning to face him. “I think you were sent to me, but I don’t know what you are.” He swallowed. “I do know that I want to keep you.” 

Bond practically pushed him down onto the bed, miraculously missing his suitcase, pinning Q’s arms above his head and kissing down his neck. 

“Then I suggest you stop worrying about crowding me,” said Bond, moving down his body.

Q exhaled. He’d always been afraid of crowding; he’d driven too many people away, and the best solution he could see was to keep to what he needed, and not what he wanted — he’d always wanted too much. 

“I’ll stop,” he said, as Bond kissed his sternum. “I — Bond, please — I’ll crowd you, then, if that’s what you want.” 

Bond looked up at Q, across the flat plane of his stomach, eyes dark and hands firm against Q’s flesh. “Better,” he said. “We’ve got an hour and a half before I have to get onto a boat. How do you suggest we use it?” 

 

__________

 

Severine was the one who organised the killers. It wasn’t that Silva didn’t have the guts to, or anything like that — it was just that Severine wanted something to do that wasn’t her hair, or her nails, or Raoul-fucking-Silva. She’d been so bored lately that she’d painted both sides of her nails — the underside a bright gold, hidden under dark burgundy on the top. 

She refused to see that as symbolic, because she wasn’t pathetic. 

She wondered if anyone else had seen the man who killed Patrice. 

He’d been in darkness, like he was part of the shadows, or perhaps just so used to them that he moved in them like a storybook character, like a magic man. 

“Be beautiful tonight,” said Silva, when he came to her. “Be beautiful, and let us see if our assassin has a lust for beautiful things.” 

“That’s you,” she said. “You want pretty things, so you assume that everyone does.” He hit her, hard, but it was worth seeing the spark of genuine hurt in his eyes. “I will be _beautiful_ , my love.” 

She would poison him in his sleep one day, or take one of her shoes, the ones with the sharp metal heel, and drive it into his throat. She’d have to be quick, quicker than a snake, because he’d kill her if he worked it out before he died. 

“Patrice is dead,” he said. 

She’d known that. She felt her hopes drop a little — they’d never been all that high, but she’d been wondering if her mystery man could do more than just appear in the corner of a room, and drop a man out of a skyscraper without seeming to feel any remorse. 

“Who killed him?” she asked. She’d make her eyes smoky tonight, and if one looked a little blacker than the other, well, the casino was dark. 

“We’ll find out tonight when he comes for his winnings,” said Silva. “Do not engage him; lure him in, and let my men take him.” 

“Of course,” she said, as something burned in her. Of course she would engage him; a shadow-man couldn’t be worse than what she had — Silva, who gleamed oily, and brought down nations from his dusty throne. 

 

__________

 

Q was clearly trying not to sulk in the afterglow — Bond knew that there was no point in telling him not to mull over the possibilities of their entanglement — the probability that it had been engineered — and the complete disregard that Bond had for any plans that his new, mysterious employer might have. He had better plans for Q. The not-quite sulking was oddly endearing — he curled on the couch in the ridiculous suite that MI6 had paid for, and huffed and sighed, and practically snuggled when Bond sat next to him, not saying anything, just sat. It took Q a while to speak, but that didn’t matter. Bond knew what was coming. 

“I think they sent you to me,” Q asked, hand on Bond’s thigh, possessive. “Our other employers." He stroked Bond's skin in a lazy, aimless circle. "That’s not fair.” 

“Really?” asked Bond. “That’s what this is about?” 

“You came back to MI6, and whoever sent you knew you’d encounter me.” 

“I sincerely doubt that they thought we’d go beyond friendship,” said Bond, risking petting his hair, “or even simple companionship. We would be forced together — from the outside, a companion means that loneliness is assuaged.” 

“You don’t have to sleep with me,” said Q. 

“I know,” said Bond. “I want to.” 

“And when you get bored of me?” 

“Is that what the problem is?” asked Bond. Self-doubt, the most effective of all poisons; there was no antidote, nothing that one could do about it once it had reached the heart. “You’re worried I’ll get bored and leave you?” He laughed. Ran his hands over his hair. “Have you gone through my files lately?” 

“No,” said Q. “A catalogue of conquests?” 

“A catalogue of deaths,” said Bond. “Have you considered that you might not be the only one who is sick of being left behind?” 

“That’s not a foundation for a relationship,” said Q. 

“No, it’s not,” said Bond. “So why are you considering it as the only thing between us? I seem to recall some fairly top-notch sex.” 

Q turned away. “Do you know how old I am?” he asked. 

Bond felt very old, sometimes; far older than he really was. He couldn’t imagine looking like Q and being so old — he wondered who had hurt Q. It ran deep, whatever it was, and he hated Q’s assumption that Bond was only staying from duty, not choice. He’d done duty before, and while it was pleasant, it didn’t beat choice. And Q was a choice — he was gorgeous and biting and he needed Bond. Q needed to be loved, and Bond could love him, if Q would allow it. Bond hated Q’s previous lovers a little, because it was obvious in the way that Q spoke that he’d experienced love, but unrequited; enough to sour him on mutual affection, enough to break him just a little. Bond knew a thing or two about unrequited love. 

“Are you attracted to me?” asked Bond. 

“Yes,” said Q.

“Then there’s not a problem. I’m attracted to you,” said Bond. Outside, the lantern-lights shimmered on the water, and music drifted in through the open patio door. This was a lovely place, made lovelier by the warm evening air. 

“Hooray for us,” said Q. 

“Will you at least try?” asked Bond. Q started to move away, and Bond grabbed him by the wrist. “Q.” 

“What do you want?” asked Q, allowing himself to be drawn close. “Bond, I’m too old for this.” 

“You’re not,” said Bond, kissing his neck, just under his ear. He smelled like expensive soap — patchouli or something earthy — but his skin tasted sweet and clean. 

“James,” said Q, softly. “I can’t, not if you don’t mean for this to last.” 

“I mean it,” said Bond. “I…can’t guarantee I won’t do what I need to in order to get a resolution in the field, but I am deadly serious about this.” 

“That’s reassuring,” said Q, into Bond’s ear. He sounded serious. “I—I don’t like people who obfuscate. How are you going to feel about me once you’ve saved me from myself?” 

“I don’t know,” said Bond. “My track record would indicate enjoyment until you get assassinated.” 

“Assassination is unlikely,” said Q. 

“I know,” said Bond, kissing him. “How are you going to feel about me?” 

“If my track record is any indication, I’ll cling like a limpet.” Q kissed back. “But if you’ll need to go…” 

“It looks like I won’t be able to anytime soon,” said Bond, with a smile. “But I don’t regret that.” 

“No?” asked Q, as Bond let his hands slip down to the small of Q’s back, crushing their bodies together. 

“I think it’s going to be fun,” said Bond. 

“I can’t let go of my misgivings,” said Q. “I don’t want to force you.” 

“You’ll know if you’re forcing me,” said Bond, kissing him, a lightness settling on him. “You can’t die.” 

“I can’t die,” Q repeated. 

It was a relief like he’d never known. Bond’s experience thus far had told him that everyone died. Everyone. He was acutely aware of the ways that those he loved could up and leave him, mostly because they always had — he’d loved, he’d lost, he’d been stupid enough to love again, because he always fell for beautiful and vulnerable. Q was no exception — Bond wondered how he’d survived all these years alone. 

Q was looking out from the balcony when Bond left, and he resisted the urge to wave up to him. To say _I’m here. I won’t forget you._ But of course, he had work — of both kinds — and he couldn’t guarantee a swift return. He brushed his fingers against Q’s radio — stupid bloody radio — and wondered if this was Q’s message back to him. _I’ll come if you need me._

He straightened, looking only forward. He had a job to do. 

 

__________

 

2008, the Bermudas. Bond slipped through blue water as shiny as sky, feeling it flow around him as he practised the dive he’d need to make that night and tried to get the feeling of failure out of his head. Everything was clear through his goggles, and he wished for a few seconds that it wasn’t, because he could see a barracuda squirming through the sea above him, its body silhouetted against the azure ripples of surface tension. 

This had been Felix’s case. It was Felix’s case, right up until Bond got involved, and Felix struck out on his own and — 

_He disagreed with something that ate him,_ they’d said, and Bond had called for an ambulance, started CPR in the face of massive blood loss, kept going even though his muscles ached with exhaustion and his tendons threatened to snap. Even now, he ached, as he padded gracelessly along the sea floor. 

He’d read an in-flight magazine on the way across — when the plane wasn’t wobbling and ducking like it was going to go down any second, when Bond wasn’t retiring to his inner hurricane room and blocking out the entire world. There’d been an article about the Bimini road, a series of cracked blocks on the sea floor; evidence of Atlantis, people said. He wished briefly for a road under his own feet, as a shoal of fish swam past, and he thought of sharks. 

Sharks, the lot of them. The scent of blood in the water, and Bond or Felix or Romanova or _whoever_ would be on the trail, making sure to leave a few judicious pieces behind them; a memento of the kill, a warning for next time. Only this time, Felix had met with real sharks, a stupid, stupid piece of terror on the part of Mr Big’s henchmen, but effective. They’d wrapped him up — some kind soul had put a tourniquet onto his knee so that he wouldn’t bleed out — and left him for Bond to find. Like a present. 

He’d give them a present. 

Of course he did what he needed to do. Once the mission was over, the boat blown up and pieces of the bad guys feeding the sharks and barracuda in the bay, Bond went to see Felix in hospital; his leg was bandaged and oddly truncated, his heart monitor beating an irregular rhythm. 

“That bastard,” said Felix, groggily. “Said he got there too late to save my leg. Should just grow another one, but it’ll take time.” 

Morphia was a wonderful thing, thought Bond, putting his hand over Felix’s. “You’re talking nonsense,” he said. 

“You watch,” said Felix. “You kill too many people, they’ll come for you too.” 

“I know,” said Bond, even though he had no idea whatsoever as to the demons that Felix was fighting in his fever-dreams. “I’ll be ready for them.” 

But facing the sky from under the water, Bond had felt anything but ready. He wondered if that was what Vesper had seen as she drowned — a pale, wobbly sun, and a thick swath of blue, like silk, too far away to reach, and too heavy to escape. 

 

__________

 

Severine had seen the man across the way, but she hadn’t expected him to show up in person in the Floating Dragon. She’d been flitting — being seen, drinking only enough to seem approachable, seeing her bodyguards out of the corner of her eyes. She’d gone to see the dragons earlier — the big one hadn’t come out, even for little strips of dried chicken, and she wondered if the lizard was just waiting to see if she could get anything better. 

The man approached her after he’d picked up Patrice’s money. She supposed he’d earned it simply by virtue of not stopping Patrice’s kill — he’d let the assassination happen to keep his own cover. He had a familiar look to him — it took her a few minutes to place him otherwise. The names. His photograph had been in the one of the unreleased videos that she and Silva had cut together for YouTube — not as an infiltrator, but as one of the men who lost the list. The list which should never have existed, lost by this man. 

She wondered if she dared to allow herself to hope — if he wanted the list, he’d have to chase Silva, and if he chased Silva, and if he was strong enough, then perhaps she might not be collateral damage. He clearly spotted her — and spotted her gun, if his introduction was any indication, and he slid in beside her to make small talk like any man in any bar might. 

She wondered if he noticed all of her guards, or the way they shifted, fingers going to triggers, fists ready to strike if he tried anything. 

“You’re not really alone, are you?” he asked. Ah. He had. 

“No,” she said. “I’m never really alone.” 

He pulled a face. “I understand. Really, I do. And I bought you a drink, miss…?” 

“Severine,” she said, and he didn’t inhale sharply, but his gaze did flicker — just a little, just enough to tell her that he knew her name from somewhere. 

“Well, Severine,” he said. “I’m looking for your employer.” 

“Then you are very foolish,” she said. “You do not look for my employer — once you have found him, he is certain to have found you and worked out all the ways he can kill you.” 

“I’m willing to take that chance.” 

He was stupid, then. She certainly hadn’t expected any man in this place to be stupid enough to buy her a drink, and he took her hand, turning over her wrist and looking at the tattoo underneath. 

“It would seem that you have a death wish,” she said, and she allowed herself a brief little flutter of hope. Maybe he did have a death wish. Maybe he could help her. 

“Sex trade,” he said, bold as brass. 

“Yes,” she said. “He _saved_ me.” She took a mouthful of the martini he’d ordered — it was bitter, citrus (was that lime peel?), and it burned when she swallowed. “He saved me.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure that wasn’t easy.” 

She gave him the location of her berth in a moment of madness — what? What did she think he would do? What did she think he could do? He was too fresh-faced to be one of Silva’s plants, and he was too naive to be anything but honest. His muscles under his suit looked like a wall of flesh, but Severine resisted the urge to reach out and touch them. 

“Bond,” she said, tasting the name. “Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?” 

He chuckled. “I never know precisely what I’m getting myself into,” he said. 

“He will kill you,” said Severine. 

“That’s all right,” said Bond, finishing his drink with a flourish. “I’m already dead.” 

 

__________

 

Sakkar hated the night. 

The daytime was lovely; there was good food on the island, and lots of places to sun herself; she loved to lie in the sand, her skin heating and Remy would come out to see her, running his broad hands down her sides, and croon to her that she was his lovely girl, his beautiful girl. 

She loved Remy; she loved Remy a lot more than any of the other goons that ran this place, that turned it into a jangling lightshow by night, where Sakkar was expected to put in an appearance and to look enthused about the people who trapped over the bridge in tall shoes and rustling clothes. She’d bite them all given half a chance — watch them bleed, let them slowly die from the scant amount of poison she had in her mouth and their own weak flesh. Warm-bloods were weak. 

Sakkar hated the night, which was precisely why she was so angry when two humans, two sweaty, cloying-scented humans, dropped into her territory and proceeded to fight with their human-claws, which were particularly ineffective, and their human-tools, which were even less effective. 

She couldn’t move as quickly as she could in the day, but she could still move, and she could still bite, and she hadn’t been fed yet tonight. She lost one in the resulting confusion, but that didn’t matter; the man she did get would be meat enough for days. 

 

__________

 

Darkness covered Bond as he crept onto the boat — he didn’t message Q; he left his phone sinking slowly into the bay, as if the short-circuiting of its wires could erase the data on it, erase what he wished he didn’t know. He hadn’t recognised the name when he got the message. He did now. He climbed into Severine’s cabin and onto the bed while she took a shower — she took a sharp inhale of breath when she saw him stretched out on her sheets, but she didn’t seem otherwise perturbed. She simply poured him a glass of champagne and sat beside him, her body sleek and warm with the heat of the shower, her hair slightly curled by the humidity. 

He fed her the caviar she’d left out, because it seemed a terrible waste of good caviar to leave it to spoil. 

He didn’t sleep with Severine. He’d thought about it — considered it closely — but he decided not to be one more man who’d used sex against her, and besides, there was Q, and it wasn’t necessary for the mission, not really. He could gain her trust by pleasing her, he could affirm her suspicions by pleasing himself, but in the end, he joined her in bed only for sleep, and thought about the email that had come through with her name on it. 

Bond didn’t like the idea that the world was fixed — that our destiny, our actions are all fixed. Severine was so small in his arms, like Q had been, and he wondered if it would really be so bad if he tried to save her. He’d never been a stickler for the rules. He wondered if his phone was still on, mired in the mud at the bottom of the sea, and then he cast the thought from his mind and rested his chin on Severine’s hair as they both drifted off to sleep.

Of course they weren’t going to be allowed to leave — Severine looked surprised, next morning, when they were rudely awoken, but Bond knew, and he didn’t care, because they could shoot him and then what? He’d wash up on shore, call Q on the little radio he’d been left, and then get out of here. Bond stood on the deck, his sea-legs still sturdy, and felt the wind rush through his hair, through the fine shirt that offered no protection against the elements. 

His first thought when he saw their destination was of Hashima Island, but there was no way they’d traveled that far; they still had to be in China, but the place had that same stale, deserted feel, even from afar. Beside him, Severine shivered. 

“We will not leave this place,” she said, quietly. 

“We will,” he said, feeling in his pocket for the radio. “Just not by the same way we came in.” 

 

__________

 

Bleep. 

“I don’t know where he went,” said Eve, her anger palpable, pacing the floor of Q’s hotel room. “He just…vanished.” 

Bleep.

“Excuse me,” said Q.

“He’d better not—” Bleep. “—vanish like he did last time,” said M, her voice tinny over the speaker. “Tanner, any leads?” 

Bleep. “Nothing as yet, Ma’am.” 

“I have—” said Q. Bleep. 

“Not _now_ , Quartermaster, unless you’ve got the tracking signal on his phone, which you don’t, because he threw it away like an idiot.” 

Bleep. 

“He didn’t throw away his radio,” said Q, as his monitoring program bleeped again.

“His what?” asked Tanner. “Tell me you didn’t give him a—” bleep “—radio.” 

“Did you want to send in the team now, or later?” asked Q, trying not to sound too smug. “Ma’am.” 

 

___________

 

The thing about Silva was that he smelled. Not a revolting smell, just a faintly disturbing smell, something that wasn’t-quite-right, all electric and burnt plastic. Severine had a visceral reaction to the scent every time. 

James smelled, too, but he smelled of man — expensive cologne, sweat, skin. She’d half-expected him to tumble her, just because men like him usually did, but instead he stretched out on her bed and went to sleep. She might have loved him a little for that; or he might have had a girl at home, someone waiting for him. 

Lucky, thought Severine, as she was dragged through the streets of Silva’s private island. She’d always had someone breathing down her neck. It would be nice to wait for someone, for once. She could be alone, and luxuriate in it — wear a robe worth more than she’d been sold for, drink champagne, be barefoot on a thick, tufted rug, and wait, not in dread, not in pain, just waiting, beautifully, for someone to come home. 

She’d broken the heel of one of her shoes, and the dust made her sneeze. Silva hadn’t even bothered to see to her directly — she’d been dragged off by some of the men, Mister James Bond being far more important than her. She laughed, looking at a ruined statue, and one of the men — Remy, she thought — pulled her up short. 

“I’m gonna be sorry to see you die, kitten,” he said. 

“I’m going to be sorry to die,” she said. “I’d have preferred to die for something better than this.” 

“You’re the one who invited the guy onto the boat,” said Remy. 

“He’d have come anyway,” she replied. 

The couple of them who spoke perfect English sniggered at the double entendre. Remy took her wrist in one of his big meaty paws. 

“You didn’t fuck him,” he said. “I was on watch. Unless you fuck in silence, you didn’t fuck him.” 

“I don’t fuck everyone I meet,” she said, as he tied her hands. 

“I know,” he said, and he touched her cheek. “Best of luck for the next life.” 

“You too,” she said, because they all knew how working for Raoul Silva would end. 

Remy stood beside her as Silva — not Raoul, not the man who’d loved her — walked into the sunlight, followed by a very reluctant looking Bond. Severine smiled. 

“My name is Ozymandias,” she said, to herself. “Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.” 

Remy laughed, but she didn’t know if he really got the joke. She supposed she’d never know. She knew, in that moment, that she was dead. 

 

__________

 

“Shoot,” said Silva. 

It was pathetic, really, that Silva’s great challenge to Bond, the test he had to pass, was shooting a frightened woman in the back streets of nowhere island. He’d almost feel insulted by it, but he could see the very real fear in Severine’s eyes, and he wondered exactly how much it would hurt if he broke free from this and took on the men with guns. 

Bond had the burn of alcohol running down his throat, and the grit from abandoned buildings in his eyes, the sun making dust sparkle like diamonds. He’d been surprised to see Silva as lord of an island of dust and broken dreams, like the rat he seemed to so want to be. And Severine, bright, shining Severine, was bound and gagged and now he understood the message in his emails. You can’t save her, he thought, even if you rush these men and kill them all, you won’t save her. 

He didn’t shoot her. He could have shot her — he wouldn’t have missed, right through the eye, get into the brain tissue, kill her quick, but fuck, he was a reaper, not a murderer. He left the murder to Silva, who took an obscene glee in it, like he enjoyed watching her slump, watching the blood pool under her body. 

Bond felt sick. 

It was enough to get him to rush the men, and yes, they shot him, but it didn’t really matter, and then there were choppers hovering and the sound of outboard engines, like the clatter of the cavalry’s hooves. He knew Q would be there, just as sure as he knew the sun would rise, and he walked to the slumped body of Severine, sure that the men around him probably wouldn’t see him. Sometimes, he thought, being dead had its perks. 

Severine’s spirit was stirring; struggling to climb free of its fleshy shell. He knelt beside her. 

“Severine,” he said, taking her spirit by the shoulders. “ _Severine_.” 

She was crying as she leant against his chest, and when he put a hand to hold her head steady, he felt the exit wound from Silva’s bullet. 

“It hurts,” she said, barely a whimper. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, because he was. He could have taken her earlier; he could have taken her when she was still whole, but he’d left it, and now she was bleeding and hurt. 

“I don’t understand,” she said. “He shot me, but I can still speak.” 

“You’re dead,” he said. “You’re dead, and it’s my fault.” 

He could see Q approaching across the courtyard — bastard must have hopped a boat — hands tucked into his pockets, a sour expression on his face. Fantastic, this was going to be an argument. Silva, meanwhile, was lashing out like a cornered creature as the men took him into custody. Severine’s body was still warm; just that, just her death, was enough to convict Silva. Bond suspected he’d done much, much more. 

“This is what can happen when you refuse to take them,” said Q. “Hello, Bond. Ma’am.” He crouched beside Severine. “My name’s Q, and I’m here to help you.”

“He shot me in the _head_ ,” said Severine, her voice hoarse. 

“I know,” said Q, looking up at the helicopters.

“Why can’t they see us?” asked James. 

“We’re not in their world,” said Q. “Can you walk, both of you?” 

“My head,” said Severine, like she had a migraine or something normal, something that wasn’t a soft mess of tissue at the back of her skull. 

“It’ll be all right,” said Q. “When you get to where you’re going, everything will be all right.” 

“People have told me that all my life,” she said, bitterly. 

“You’re dead now,” said Q, rather bluntly, Bond thought.

“So now what?” she asked. 

“Bond’s going to show you,” he said.

He helped Severine — what was now Severine — to her feet, and together they walked through the mess of people securing the island, down to the docks. A boat was waiting; not a sleek, swift thing like the boat that had brought them. This boat wallowed, a working boat, fishing tackle and nets on the deck as Severine took a step towards it. 

“That’s my grandfather’s boat,” she said. “He used to take me up the river, before—” She caught herself, and turned to him. “When I was a child, I used to pretend that he’d find out, and that he’d come and bring me away from all this.” Bond’s heart knocked against his ribs. “If I’m dead, what’s the use in taunting me like this? He never came to save me. No-one ever came to save me. Not even you.” 

“I can’t save people,” said Bond. “I’m sorry.” 

“I was going to save myself,” she said, holding her head high. “And then _you_ came.” 

“He didn’t make this boat,” said Q, from behind Bond. “You did.” 

“I brought her with me,” said Bond. “When did her death become a certainty?” 

“I don’t know,” said Q. “I get the names, and the times. That’s all.” 

“Don’t you ever wonder?” asked Bond. “Don’t you ever question?” 

“How long do you think I’ve been alive?” asked Q, as Severine climbed into the boat. “Of course I’ve questioned. I’ve also learned _nothing_. I’m a genius, you know. If there was something to be found, I would have found it.” 

“Modest, too,” said Bond, shielding his eyes to look at Severine as she disappeared into the shimmer of light on water. 

“Bond!” called Eve, and she jogged up to them across the dusty ground. “Jesus, where did the pair of you go? You move like the wind.” 

“Yes,” said Q. “That’s precisely what we do.” 

Bond could challenge him to have it out, here and now, but Q was pale — paler — and Eve reached out a steadying hand to his shoulder. 

“Come on,” she said. “Don’t get snippy with me just because you don’t want to go on a helicopter.” 

Q made a wordless sound of frustration and trotted off to the helicopter, head held high. Later, he curled up at Bond’s side, a frown creasing his brow. Bond knew that he wasn’t forgiven — that their fight was delayed, but not forgotten — but the need to feel safe as they flew home was enough to temporarily break the barrier between them. 

“What is going on with you two?” asked Eve, after three hours of an interminably bad mid-air film had broken for dinner. Q hadn’t wanted to wake, so Bond let him sleep. “I haven’t seen something like this for… well, ever.” 

“It’s a deep and mystical bond between agent and quartermaster,” said Bond, because he’d just swallowed three hours of spellcasting in a vaguely medieval world and it was affecting his speech patterns. Or perhaps he’d had too much complimentary champagne. 

“It looked a lot like you were going to beat each other senseless if I hadn’t shown up,” said Eve. 

Privately, James wouldn’t be surprised if Q beat him senseless when they got home. Tried to beat him senseless; it was unlikely that he would succeed. 

“I said something that upset him,” he said, eventually. 

“You don’t know what it was, do you?” 

“No idea,” said Bond, as Q stirred, shifted, and didn’t seem to actually make it to wakefulness as the stewards collected their dinner trays. “But isn’t that half the fun?” 

 

__________

 

Almost thirty years ago a man named Tiago went through the excruciating process of cracking a tooth to drink the cyanide within it. He was surprised when he didn’t die. In London, Q curled up in a prison cell, hoping that somehow, some way, his duty to Agent Rodriguez had been reassigned. 

Loyalty is a funny thing, when it comes down to the wire. Loyalty, love of country, certainty that you’re doing the Right Thing are far more effective shackles than iron, a cage that will hold against anything, if you just know how to build them up. Death let Q build his own cage; he’d return — not only to MI6 — even when he was set free. He was such a domestic animal; he didn’t know what to do in the wild, so he’d come home, he’d _always_ come home. 

 

__________

 

1992\. She’d known that she really owned the title of M when she took the decision to imprison Q. Not the jovial Quartermaster, no, the pale, sullen boy who haunted the steps of her field agents, who kept secrets so secret that he was protected by royal decree. Not a decree from Queen Elizabeth, mind, but rather King George; the original was written on yellowing paper and kept in the archives. 

“Why don’t you help us?” she asked him. 

They’d tried tying him to a chair, but if he could touch a man, he could escape. They found that out the first time, when he did something — _something_ — which the unfortunate agent described as feeling like his soul had been ripped out of his body and then returned in very short order. 

“I do,” said the boy, chained because they were both inside his glass prison cell. “I help as much as I am permitted.” 

“Then you serve a master greater than us?” 

“Of a sort,” said the boy. 

She shot him. They’d learned that he healed quickly. He writhed in place, swore, and then hung his head as the bullet worked its way out of his shoulder. It plinked onto the cement floor, bounced, and then rolled to a stop. His skin healed over as she watched; it was like seeing a film in reverse, and when it was done, it was done. 

“No matter what you do to me, I’ll wind up the way I looked when I died,” said the boy. “There’s nothing I can do about it.” 

“Even if we remove a limb?” she asked. 

He shuddered in place. “I think so,” he said, not looking up. 

“Let’s not have to try,” she said. 

She’d never done it — she knew her limits, and the limits of her staff. It had been Boothroyd who’d complained the most — he’d practically broken down with _the lad’s never done anything wrong,_ and she’d reminded him about sleeper agents. He’d practically sneered — the most aggressive she’d ever seen him. _Bloody long sleep,_ he’d said. _What would you do, if everyone you knew was dead?_

She’d considered the question, and the evidence, and the fact that the stupid boy returned to MI6 even when he escaped, and let him go, where he vanished into the depths of R&D. He didn’t raise his head, and she wondered why he’d stayed — why he didn’t leave in a huff or a blaze of glory. Instead, the boy had moped for six months after his imprisonment, skittish when she spoke to him, hiding in his office and not talking to anyone. She’d thought that this was what she’d wanted him to do, but in reality, it didn’t make him any more likeable. 

He’d got a boyfriend — or a boyfriend had returned, according to her surveillance team — and the two of them were so closely joined at the hip that she had the boyfriend brought in for questioning only to discover that he not only had a letter from King George, he also had one from Churchill, and he had a name that made her go a little weak at the knees, if she ever went weak at the knees. She was almost jealous; the boyfriend introduced himself as Ned, not Thomas, not Lawrence, just Ned, like any man in any parish across the country. 

“Pleased to meet you,” he said warmly, and he shook her hand, and that was a mistake, because suddenly she was gasping like a landed fish, her lungs struggling for breath as her body collapsed behind her. 

“What—?” she asked. 

“I’ve taken your soul out of your body,” he said, staring at her with icy blue eyes, the friendly demeanour suddenly turned cold. She understood the stories about Lawrence, now; his ruthlessness, his willingness to go where others would not tread. “And if you bother Q like that again, it will happen permanently.”

“You’re making him a target with this behaviour,” she spat, as her body lay like some great rubbery doll on the expensive carpet. 

“Madam,” he said. “Perhaps you don’t understand me. If you bother him like that again, it will not be me who comes after you. You should die in your own time, not because Death tells you to be silent.” 

He put her back into her body with a shake not unlike a falling-dream, and she struggled to a chair, her lungs aching, heart thudding so loudly she could feel it. 

“And you, I suppose, are Death?” she asked. 

“No,” he said. “I am only a hand of Azrael.”

“And the boy?” 

“Q is the best at what we do,” said Lawrence, leaning over her desk. “I have little doubt that our masters will have any compunction when it comes to keeping him safe.” He smiled. “I have little thought that you want to get rid of him either — you’ve seen his skills.” 

“How do you reconcile it?” she asked him. “Answering to two masters?” 

He laughed. “The Empire has always wanted me to bring death in my service of her whims,” he replied. “Do not pretend you’re any different now. This is a dirty, nasty little world, and it always will be.”

“Yes,” she said, meeting his eyes, a feeling of foundations shifting and cracking beneath her. “I suppose it will.”

 

____________

 

Q waited until they got back to HQ, and then shoved Bond against the wall of one of the deepest corridors. Bond felt one of his ribs crack; Q was much, much stronger than he looked. He also felt the rib start to knit back together — infinitely creepy. So he had hit a nerve — a nerve buried so deeply that Bond hadn’t even known what he was shooting for when he hit it. 

“Do you know what happens when you question? When you disobey?” Q asked, his arm hard across Bond’s throat. “Do you _know_?”

“They’re stuck like they are when they die,” said Bond. “I’m not an idiot.” 

“You could have fooled me,” said Q, pulling away. “You let her suffer.” 

“What was I supposed to do?” asked Bond. 

“Take her soul,” said Q. “That’s what we do. That’s all we do. You were lucky that Silva killed her -- it was her time to go, and she went.” 

“And what, everything is magically all right?”

“I’m not the one who makes the rules,” said Q. “I’ve been stuck here for a hundred and fifty years. Don’t you think I’d move on if I could?” 

“Perhaps you like it here,” said Bond. 

“As you get older,” said Q, “you learn that sometimes it’s better not to fight. Do you understand?” 

“I understand,” said Bond, “but I don’t believe it.” 

Q lit a cigarette, and Bond watched him fumble with it. He’d hit something buried so deep that it clearly hurt like hell, and Q was spiking, angry because of it. He’d seen this kind of thing before — people getting violent, trying to turn Bond’s attention away from something that they didn’t want him to see. Down here there was no-one to hear them yell at one another — no smoke detectors, no surveillance cameras, nothing but the two of them. Down here was private, as private as MI6 ever got. 

“Tell me what happened,” said Bond. 

“Why bother?” said Q. 

“Because I’m the only person you can tell,” said Bond. “We’re going to be in each other’s orbit for years, aren’t we? And you promised me that you wouldn’t die.” And a whole lot of other things besides, if promises could be written out in kisses and the rhythm of their bodies. 

“Yes,” said Q, fingers trembling. 

“So tell me,” said Bond. 

“I was in love,” said Q. “Did Ned tell you what happens when someone’s time is up, and they don’t die?” He swallowed, nothing but air. “Their soul withers in their body. It’s worse than what happened to Severine.” 

“How is that worse?” asked Bond, remembering the phantom feel of soft brain under his fingers. 

“Because that’s the only way to truly go,” said Q. “Your soul withers, but your body lives, and eventually one day — eventually there’s nothing left but a shell for something that isn’t you anymore, and you’re nothing but a handful of dust.” 

“What did yours do?” asked Bond. 

“He killed women,” said Q, taking an unsteady drag on his cigarette. “He made them suffer.” 

“Many men have done worse,” said Bond. 

“I don’t think you understand.” 

“I understand,” said Bond. He’d seen terrible things — _terrible_ things. 

“That doesn’t make it all right,” said Q, crushing his cigarette with a sharp, angry stamp. “We shouldn’t do this.” 

“Q,” said Bond, as Q turned away from him. “Wait.” 

“I can’t,” Q repeated, his footfalls echoing down the corridor until they were sharply cut off by a slamming door. 

 

__________

 

“Did you sleep with T.E Lawrence?” asked M, three nights after the 7/7 bombings. 

She was trying to make small talk — talk about something that wasn’t buses, or the underground, or the death of innocents. MI6 had followed in the wake of the boy for the entire day — he’d told them that something big was going to happen, but no-one had been prepared for how big. Not even him, she thought; she’d caught him crying in a corridor, furiously embarrassed when he saw her watching, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve and then sticking his chin up, haughty as you damn well please. 

The boy had offered to drive her home to her dark house, and she’d offered him a drink to be polite, and then another drink because he kept talking. Oh, she thought, you’re lonely. I could have made you tell me everything so easily if I’d realised that you were lonely. But that bridge had been crossed — they didn’t trust each other, no matter how much they pretended to. 

“No. I didn’t sleep with him,” said the boy. “It was enough to be in love.” 

“It was. Not anymore?” 

“I’m not going to tell you that,” said the boy. “Ask me something else.” 

“Where do we go when we die?” she asked. “Can you tell me that?” 

To her very great surprise, he did. 

 

__________

 

He was a little surprised by how much he wanted to patch things up with Q — neither of them was exactly a model of good behaviour, but at least they couldn’t kill each other, and he felt instinctively that he could trust Q — that somewhere under there, Q cared for him, was worth caring about in turn. Bond knew how to take the path of least resistance, and he attempted to soothe Q’s hurt feelings with gifts. Bad idea, he realised quickly, because Q didn’t care much for gifts — he liked people, and closeness, and the best way to patch things up with Q was to draw him near and kiss him insensible. 

Granted, that was Bond’s second strategy, so he wasn’t too far off the mark. Q practically melted against him, running his fingers through Bond’s hair, letting Bond hike him up onto a desk, and push him down over the blueprints for something terribly unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Q took him home for round two, and it wasn’t until after midnight, when Bond was contemplating sneaking out of bed and checking his phone for an email that he simultaneously anticipated and dreaded, that he realised why it had worked. Touch. Q wanted to be touched. 

He traced his fingers over Q’s shoulders, mapping skin and freckles and birthmarks; in his sleep, Q murmured something incomprehensible and cuddled closer. It was a desperately young gesture, like a small creature seeking comfort, tucking himself up against Bond in a way that Bond had never seen him move during daylight hours. Bond’s arms went around him reflexively, as he wondered about his predecessor. Who had reaped for MI6 before Bond? 

He knew when Q woke, because his breathing changed — a little snuffle — and he tried to move away, to hide himself from the fact that he’d been snuggling. Bond put a hand on the back of his head, gently keeping him near. 

“You don’t have to move,” he said. “I like it when you’re close.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Q, in the warm darkness. “I told you. I chase people away.” 

“Yes, I imagine you probably do,” said Bond. “Deliberately.” 

“Fuck you,” said Q, but he didn’t move, so Bond pushed a little harder. 

“It’s easier, isn’t it?” he asked. “Then you have a reason for being alone.” He threaded his fingers through Q’s hair. “I know how to play that game.” 

“And so what, you’re just going to calmly take my shit and expect me to put up with yours?” 

Bond snorted. “Isn’t that the definition of a relationship?” he asked. 

“I suppose it is,” said Q, shifting a little, putting his head more squarely on Bond’s chest. 

“And you’ll run away with me, eventually.” 

“No,” said Q. “I can’t.” 

“Why not?” asked Bond. “Someone has to have been reaper before me. Before you, even.” 

“I was the SIS reaper, right from the start,” said Q. “I try to go into the field; I’ve worked out some very clever ways to use electromagnetism to extract a soul through the mobile phone network, but I prefer to go into the field.” He sighed. “I used to get into the field a lot more — these days both my employers want to restrict my movements.” 

“Do you honestly think that I’m your replacement?” asked Bond, shifting his grip to stroke long lines up and over Q’s bare back and shoulders, delighting in the press of skin on skin. 

Q shook his head, hair shifting against Bond’s chest. “I —” he said. “I sure you’re my fault.” He didn’t pull away; if anything, he pressed closer. “I was so lonely.” 

“How long have you been alive?” asked Bond. 

“I was born in 1863,” said Q. “Died in 1885; we got older young, then. The reaper who took me was an old woman; she patted my hand and told me I was a _poor little lamb_.”

“How did you die?” asked Bond, reeling a little — 1885. Good grief. 

“Stabbed for my watch and wallet,” said Q. “Not a very noble death.”

“Better than being squashed by a building,” said Bond, and Q chuckled. “Did you cause that?” 

“I don’t know,” said Q. “We get the names every night; when I first started, they’d just show up in my notebook. Now they come from an undisclosed sender on the email. I…was drunk, so I tried to send one back.” 

“How do you know you can trust them?” asked Bond. 

“The universe seeks to expend as little energy as possible,” said Q. “Punishing me would be out of character, and the deaths happen regardless — there’s no point in resisting. Do you think I haven’t tried?” He sighed. “It bounced back, of course — no reply.” 

“What did you ask?” 

“I didn’t ask for you,” said Q. “I just…wrote. Stupidly, stupid…I was drunk, and lonely. Worse, I was picked up by the internal scanners, and I only just managed to delete the damn thing before someone at MI6 found out.” 

“Did you ever think of telling Ned to return, if you were lonely?” 

“Would you cage a bird, just because you could?” asked Q. He didn’t seem surprised by the question. “Watch its feathers drop, watch it die in stages?” 

“No,” said Bond. “But I wouldn’t cage myself in its place.” He moved his hand back to Q’s hair, petted him like a beloved creature. 

“But because of me, you are,” said Q. 

“I came back,” said Bond, “before I even knew you existed.” 

“You didn’t know you were dead.” 

“I’m not a fool,” said Bond, pressing his lips to Q’s forehead, speaking against his skin. “I gave my life to my country. I gave my life for my country. When I wish to leave, I will leave, and I will take you with me. No situation lasts forever.” 

“Death does,” said Q, his fingers digging into Bond’s side. 

“Ned went somewhere else,” said Bond. “So will we, one day.” 

Inwardly, he was horrified — just how long had the SIS and this…this power above had Q tethered and hooded? Long enough for him to be unable to see what was patently obvious; wherever the names came from, they needed the reapers. If they left, he thought, it would not be long before the names were local to their new place. The nice thing about death was that there was always work. 

Q didn’t say anything, just rubbed his cheek against the bare skin of Bond’s shoulder. Yes, touch-starved; Bond knew the sensation, the need to be stroked and kissed just for no good reason other than you’re human, and corporeal, and bodies need to be loved as much as they need oxygen, or food. 

“Sleep,” said Bond. 

“Will you stay?” asked Q, into his shoulder. 

“Yes,” said Bond, tightening his grip. “Willingly. Even when you’re being an obnoxious little brat.” 

“Thank you,” said Q, pressing his face into Bond’s skin and breathing in deeply, like he was drowning.

 

__________

 

1888

He kept the names in his desk drawer, along with his drawings and ideas. He was determined to become an inventor, and while the uncaring populace of London didn’t look twice at his inventions, John did. Quentin thought that he might have found paradise with John — of course, it was a secret paradise, illegal, because the Queen wouldn’t care much for sodomites, but Quentin didn’t care much for the law. He’d finally found home. 

That was, until the murders began. He was called to them by his new employer — certainly not God, but certainly an interesting person, if they were a person. Quentin took the souls of girls who later turned up slashed to ribbons; sometimes, he was a little too late, and he couldn’t take their soul before they were a mess of gore and blood. One of them had innards spilling like gleaming ropes, and he was sick before he took her soul, still shaky even as her ghost walked with him, holding her stomach close to her body. 

He hated walking the streets so late at night. He had to — he’d be making a visit to a girl, her name and location written in neat copperplate letters in his notebook. The words appeared from the aether, even when he’d sat up and watched the book all night, clear black lines forming themselves as he barely dared to breathe. 

There were gravelings skittering around in the shadows like particularly malevolent cats; a clatter, and then a scream, and Quentin was too late again. He ran towards the scream, and he was too late to save the girl, but not too late to see her killer. Quentin had met John at cricket on a perfect summer’s day; they’d first kissed in the green cave of leaves under a willow tree; they’d moved in together as two young bucks, and shared a bed for nigh on three years. He’d saved John, when the man’s name appeared on his list — he was supposed to die of a shattering fever, but Quentin nursed him through it and refused to take his soul, flatly refused. It had worked, it seemed; he’d got well, and started to live again. 

He knew every inch of John’s skin, and so his heart sank when he saw the man crouched over the dying girl. Had refusing to take his soul worked, or had it just opened a door to a darker place? 

“What is this?” asked Quentin, voice shaking. 

“Quentin?” asked John. He had blood on his hands. “I found your notebook.” 

“Which notebook?” 

“The one with the deaths in it.” 

Oh God. He’d never been particularly careful about hiding the book — he’d trusted unconditionally, loved unconditionally, and he hadn’t ever expected…or wanted… 

“What did you do?” asked Quentin, as the poor girl struggled for breath. 

“You’re an angel of death,” said John, as Quentin crouched beside her. 

“I’m not an angel,” said Quentin. “I’m— I’m nothing like that.” 

“But you wanted them killed.” 

“No,” said Quentin, choking on bile. “I didn’t want anyone killed.” 

He grabbed at the poor woman’s soul, and she fought him, like he was the one who had ripped her open. He dragged her close to him, trying to soothe her, knowing that he never could. He hadn’t been fast enough. 

“Take her,” he said, to nothing and no-one. “Take her, take her, _please_ take her.” 

The struggling soul escaped his arms, and he closed his eyes, desperately hoping that there was some better place — that there was something there for people who had died in some horrific ouroboros — the names in Quentin’s notebook, John killing them because of their names in Quentin’s notebook. He felt sick; he finally opened his eyes when John touched his arm. 

“You don’t understand,” said Quentin. “I’m not an angel of death.” 

John reached for him, across the body, the flesh of it cooling in the evening fog. They’d be lucky if they weren’t seen. Quentin wondered what would happen to him if they tried to hang him — he knew what would happen to John, and right now he couldn’t bring himself to be sorry for it. He’d done this — he’d thought — it was his fault, he knew. 

“I only did what you wanted,” said John, pressing his face into Quentin’s shoulder. “I only did what you wanted, love.” 

“I never wanted that,” said Quentin, tears blurring his vision. “I never wanted anyone to suffer. I don’t write the names. I’ve never written the names; they’re given to me.” He’d never talked about it to John; he’d feared that any sensible person would think him mad if he even tried. Now he regretted that — oh, he regretted. 

“What are you, then?” asked John.

“I take the souls of people to the great beyond,” said Quentin.

“Then you are an angel.” 

“No,” said Quentin; he was frightened, and his knees were wet with blood, and he could feel John trembling in his arms. “I’m not. And I won’t protect you for this; I love you, but this —”

“You saved me for this?” asked John, hurt clouding his tone. “You saved me when I had that fever — I know you did — there was a bright light calling me away, but you held my hand and you kept me close to you. Did you save me just so that you could betray me?” 

“No,” said Quentin. 

“I did what you needed.” 

“ _No_ ,” said Quentin, and he started to cry properly, because it had all gone wrong; his dream of a few more idyllic years had gone wrong. 

John was close enough that he barely had to move to dig the knife in to Quentin’s stomach; shocked, he didn’t fight back, just let it happen, let John watch him crumple, let the knife slash across his throat. Perhaps he deserved this; it hurt only briefly, brightly, before his dead flesh tried to make itself whole again. 

“I’m sorry,” said the man who had been the love of Quentin’s short life, and his interminable death. “I’m sorry, love; I thought—I didn’t know what I thought.” 

He couldn’t speak, air whistling out of his throat and bubbling obscenely, but he met John’s eyes, and he knew that this had been his fault. That this was his punishment — people have their time, and they should be allowed to go. Quentin had kept him, selfishly, and the man he’d kept had withered into something other than the man he’d loved. John’s soul was so small; Quentin could see it, shining like a bright star in his breast, and as he watched, the star winked out and went dark, silent. 

“I’m sorry,” said John, and he got to his feet, running, his footsteps fading into the mist. 

His throat cut, his guts spilling out, Quentin dragged himself together. There was a graveling crawling along the edge of the alley, looking at him and hissing with delight. 

“Go away,” said Quentin, rasping. “Go away; I’ve had enough of all this.” 

Eventually he had enough strength to stand and make his way home, crawling into bed, waking feeling like he’d been run over. He got up, though, and did the day’s reapings. Bought some new clothes, because his old good suit was ruined and sticky with blood. Watched the police fish a body out of the river; John’s body, his hair knotted by the lapping water, his clothes dark with scum. 

Quentin went home, made himself a cup of tea, and then wondered if the water he was using was the water John had died in, spitting out the mouthful before he could swallow it. He was disgusted by the thought — disgusted — and he felt so hollow that if struck he’d ring, like an empty bell. 

 

__________

 

“I didn’t get to him,” said Q, standing beside Bond as they watched the CCTV. “That was my mistake.” 

“So his soul has atrophied?” asked Bond. He snorted. “Give me a break.”

Silva’s image was indistinct — fuzzyish, not all there. They could see him pacing, though, this little blur of pale clothes and pale hair, back and forth, back and forth. He’d compared them to rats, Bond thought, and wondered what happened when you caged a feral rat. It probably bit you. He wasn’t sure. 

“The only last, tiny piece of him that holds on is his love for M,” said Q. “They were lovers, you know.” 

“What?” asked Bond. “He calls her _Mummy_.” 

It was that terrible disillusionment that one feels when they discover the fallibility of their parents. He tried to imagine M naked, tried to imagine her— no, he couldn’t. His stomach felt like it had dropped through the seat of his trousers. 

Q shrugged. “It’s been almost thirty years,” he said. “Maybe he changed his mind. Or it was one of those…” 

“Don’t,” said Bond.

Q looked at him, head slightly tilted, like a bird. “I won’t,” he said, and Bond let his hand settle in the small of Q’s back. He wanted to touch, to ground himself, to not think about what must have been. 

“He’s barely aged,” said Bond, eventually. “He’s older than me, but he doesn’t look it.” 

He couldn’t see Silva’s features on this screen, but he had seen them close enough when Silva captured him. The man had slid a hand up Bond’s thigh, and Bond had used those moments to catalogue every line, every part of Silva’s face. 

“He’s dead inside,” said Q. “I suppose that might affect the face.” 

“Dead?” asked Bond. 

“When you don’t take a soul but the person doesn’t die,” said Q, and his voice had gone quiet and serious. “It withers. It shrinks back; it’s not immediate, but the person — they don’t know it, but they change. They change, and the things that you’d never have thought them capable of, well.” He laughed, bitterly. “They become capable of things. Terrible things.” 

“What happened?” asked Bond, tucking a loose comma of hair behind Q’s ear, drawing him closer. “You found this out the hard way, didn’t you?” 

“Yes,” said Q. “I— there was someone I loved, and he got very sick. Sick enough to die. And I was stubborn, and…” 

He choked, and looked away. 

Bond lifted his chin. “You, stubborn?” he asked. 

Q’s glasses were a little foggy, but he didn’t remove them. “I refused to let him go,” he said. “I didn’t want things to end. So. So I…kept him alive, but his soul died in him.” Bond pressed a hand to his cheek, and Q put a shaking hand over it, keeping him there. “Everything we were, everything we could be, everything should have died when his time was up, but I couldn’t do it.” 

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Bond. 

“It was,” said Q. 

“No,” Bond replied. “Did you get a welcome pack for becoming a reaper? A job description? An explanation? How much of this did you have to work out on your own?” 

Q was silent, but he turned his head and kissed Bond’s palm. 

“It’s not a terrible thing to love someone enough that you don’t want to let them go,” said Bond, thinking of Vesper, and the way the water had closed over her. “Most of us just don’t get the chance to change that fate.” 

“It’s a terrible thing to have loved someone that much,” said Q. “And I made it worse.” He pulled away from Bond, taking off his glasses and wiping them. “Sometimes things are so bad that they destroy all your memories; they taint everything.” 

“Yes,” said Bond. “They do.” He looked up at Silva — the blur on the screen — and realised that the man would be erased, everything he’d done as an agent would be gone, that his past would be forever changed by who he was now. “But you did love again.” 

“Yes,” said Q. 

“On the night that he left, Ned called you,” said Bond. “I was in his hotel room.” 

“I wasn’t particularly dignified when I discovered that he was going,” said Q. “What did you hear?” 

“Not much,” said Bond; that was true enough. “I think he did love you.” 

“I know he loved me,” said Q. “I don’t understand your point.” 

“What would have happened if he’d refused to go without you?” asked Bond. 

Q shrugged. “Maybe he’d never have got another chance?” he said. “You take your chances where you get them.” 

“There’s always another chance,” said Bond. “Q.” 

“Bond, you’re not helping,” said Q. 

“I’m not trying to be helpful,” said Bond. “You’ve spent a hundred years hiding and hoping; there’s always another chance, _always_.” 

“There isn’t,” said Q. “Everything ends up the same. Look at Silva.” He pointed at the screen — the blur was standing still, now. “He loved, didn’t he? And he should have gone. What if Ned hadn’t gone? It wouldn’t have brought him back to England. Everything ends. That’s what reaping has taught me. Everything ends, and there’s always some poor sod who is left to sweep up after.” 

“I’ll stay with you,” said Bond. 

It wasn’t impulsive. He knew the feeling of impulse, and this wasn’t it. This was more a feeling of rightness — not the rightness he’d felt with Vesper, but the rightness he felt when he lifted a gun, the rightness he felt in a suit, the way he could get behind the wheel of anything and feel as if he were part of the machine. It was like slotting pieces together to fit. 

Q was silent. 

“I’m serious,” Bond added, in case Q thought he wasn’t. 

He’d had Severine, and he’d had Eve so close to him, and he could have had fifty different girls in the time since he’d returned, but he didn’t want them. He had wondered, vaguely, whether his reaction to Q was only because of what they both were, but he’d seen the reaper woman Shona a few times, and there’d been no attraction there. Q infuriated him no end; he’d always liked a challenge. 

All right, so his desire to protect might be in overdrive, but that just made him feel better. He liked having someone to look after; it was comforting, in a way that not much else in Bond’s life could be. The thought that even if everything around him was fucking up, that there was someone who needed him, someone who he could protect, kept him happy. 

“Together?” asked Q. 

“Together,” said Bond. “If they send me to Station R, I’ll drag you with me.” 

“I didn’t think that was your style,” said Q. 

“It can be,” said Bond. “If you want.” He cleared his throat. “I have before.” 

“Ah,” said Q. “I’ve read that file.” 

“Remember that I’ve been left behind, too,” said Bond. A thought struck him, and he met Q’s eyes. “Did you take anyone I loved?”

“No,” said Q. He paused. “Was Felix with you when Vesper…er…?” 

“Not when it happened. Why?” asked Bond. 

“No reason,” said Q, looking so perfectly guilty that Bond kissed the look off his face without regret. He’d call Felix in the evening, when he was likely to be up. For now, they had Silva to worry about. “I won’t leave you either. If I can. I won’t.” 

“Then we’re settled,” said Bond, as Q’s phone buzzed. “Names at this time of the morning?” 

Q checked it. “No,” he said. “Apparently, the boys have found a laptop.” He smiled, and glanced up at the screen. “All right, Silva. Let’s find out what you’re up to.” 

 

__________

 

To: undisclosed recipient  
From: bond@universalexports.co.uk  
Subject: Employment Offer

I would like to know more about my new conditions of employment. 

Sincerely, 

James Bond

 

To: bond@universalexports.co.uk  
From: undisclosed sender  
Subject: Re: Employment Offer

You were necessary. 

 

To: undisclosed recipient  
From: bond@universalexports.co.uk  
Subject: Re: Re: Employment Offer

That’s not an answer

 

To: undisclosed recipient; bond@universalexports.co.uk  
From: undisclosed sender  
Subject: Re: Re: Employment Offer

You do know that this email is monitored, don’t you?

Q

 

To: bond@universalexports.co.uk; q@qbranch.gov.uk  
From: undisclosed sender  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Employment Offer

Bond was deemed necessary; the powers will delay death, but not forget your contribution, good or ill. 

 

To: bond@universalexports.co.uk  
From: q@qbranch.gov.au  
Subject: …

Please don’t make them angry with us. I was looking forward to a pleasant afterlife. 

 

To: q@qbranch.gov.uk  
From: bond@universalexports.co.uk  
Subject: Re:… 

I dislike being told that I have no choice in my destiny. 

 

To: bond@universalexports.co.uk  
From: q@qbranch.gov.au  
Subject:Re: Re: …

You do have a choice. You choose to obey or to rebel. 

 

To: q@qbranch.gov.uk  
From: bond@universalexports.co.uk  
Subject: Re: Re: Re:… 

That’s not a choice; that’s a threat. You’re kept in line by fear. 

 

To: undisclosed recipient  
From: bond@universalexports.co.uk  
Subject: Q 

Am I necessary to you, or him? 

 

To: bond@universalexports.co.uk  
From: q@qbranch.gov.au  
Subject: Q

Don’t. 

 

To: bond@universalexports.co.uk; q@qbranch.gov.uk  
From: undisclosed sender  
Subject: Re: Q 

Don’t be simplistic. 

 

To: undisclosed recipient  
From: bond@universalexports.co.uk  
Subject: Re: Re: Q 

I will protect him. From you, if I need to. 

 

To: bond@universalexports.co.uk  
From: undisclosed sender  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Q 

Good. 

 

_________

 

“I do love you,” said Ned. “I do, I do.” 

The fat graveling had got into Q’s house, was sitting on the top of the wardrobe making faces at them both. Q turned and buried his face in Ned’s chest. It was 1995, and they’d been back together for three years while Q pulled himself out of the horror of being strung up, questioned and tortured until he was deemed safe again. He knew that Ned didn’t understand why he stayed in London; Q didn’t understand, really, why Ned chose to leave. 

“I love you,” Ned said again, as he stroked Q’s hair. “But there’s somewhere else I need to be.”

 

__________

 

It was standard protocol to plug whatever he was working on into the network — put it onto the large screens so that everyone could see it, so that his brilliant, brilliant young staff could watch and comment and pick the things that Q missed. He’d learned that it’s not always best to strike out alone — that striking out alone was lonely, and working alone could see you make a mistake. 

Plugging in Silva’s laptop was, in retrospect, a mistake. It was the kind of mistake you only make once, but as every door in the place activated, as the computer system took over, as people began looking around nervously for gas leaks, Q was simultaneously horrified and very, very impressed. 

“Bond,” he said, looking back at him. 

“On it,” said Bond, fitting in an earpiece as he took off at a flat run. 

“Shit,” said Q, as the screens flashed at him. NOT SUCH A CLEVER BOY. Not a boy at all, he thought, and he wondered just how much Silva knew about him. “Shit, shit, shit.” 

“Sir,” said R. “There’s something weird about this program; it’s not just defeating everything we’re throwing at it, it’s being creative.” 

“Creative?” asked Eve, from behind Q. 

Q frowned. “Only creatures with a soul can be creative,” he said. “Computer programs are soulless. Trust me on that.” 

“I do trust you,” said R, and she put her screen up to the main display. “See what I mean?” 

Q looked, and the code was mutating as they all watched. He’d spent a lot of time designing beautiful graphic displays, and now he could see the spread of the virus as clearly as dropping blood into clear water — it curled and spread, and then changed direction, unprompted, anticipatory. 

“That’s impossible,” said Q. “I— I had worked out some ways of taking a soul with technology, but not saving it for future use.” 

“What do you mean?” asked R. 

“This isn’t just a program,” said Q. “It’s alive.” 

“Q,” said Eve. “Perhaps you’ve been—”

“No, I haven’t been working too hard,” said Q. “It’s absolutely genius. You’ve heard people talk about putting their soul into their work? Silva found a way to actually do it.” He jumped up onto the little platform next to the screen. “Bond, what’s going on down there?” 

“He’s gone,” said Bond. 

“Any trail?” asked Q. 

“There’s gravelings,” said Bond. “They seem particularly keen for me to go in one direction.” 

“Go in the other,” said Q. “If he’s done what I think he’s done, he’s not going to show up properly on any CCTV; you’re practically on your own.” 

“What else is new?” asked Bond. 

“Why won’t he show up?” Eve was looking at the screens. 

“You can’t take a decent photograph of a man with no soul,” said Q, flicking to images from their closed circuit cameras. “I’m looking for static.” 

He looked — it wouldn’t exactly be easy to spot, because CCTV wasn’t some sort of shiny HD feed, and there were a lot of people taking the Tube. 

“If he has no soul, where is it?” asked Eve. 

“In the program,” said Q, scanning the shifting feeds. Silva’s soul was in the program, and Q was a taker of souls, so did that mean…? “Wait. Eve, you’re a genius.” 

“What?” asked Eve, and Q concentrated, the world shifting around him, digging his hand through the laptop like it was a mirage, like it was made of water, not solid at all. His fingers latched onto something which burned with pain when he touched it, and he dragged it out, holding it tightly, knowing that here, _here_ , he had Silva’s soul. Now all Bond would need to do was…to eliminate the body. 

The squirming, silvery piece of soul looked like a worm as it wriggled, trapped against his palm. Q snorted, because it really was funny — a worm. A computer worm. R was making a horribly funny noise somewhere behind him, but he figured she’d keep mum about it. 

“What the _hell_ is that?” asked Eve, as Q jumped for it. 

“Silva,” said Q, trying to gain purchase on it, but it was too slippery — it wriggled like an eel out of his fingers. A strong soul, an independent soul, not biddable. He chased it, but it got to a grate before he did, vanishing with a little flip and a puff of smoke. “Shit. Bond, keep an eye out. If you kill him now, he’ll still have a chance to pass beyond; he deserves that, for all his sins.” 

“And if I don’t?” Bond’s voice was angry, even across the speakers.

“Silva had put his actual soul into the computer program, but I’ve let it escape. I don’t know what that thing will pick up floating around London,” said Q. “It’s extraordinary, really extraordinary; I’ve never—”

“Stop marvelling and find me an escape hatch,” said Bond. “Find me Silva.” 

“I can try,” said Q. 

“Don’t try. Do it,” said Bond, and he ran into the underground, like a shadow. 

“Thanks, Yoda,” Q murmured, as he flicked between screens. He risked a glance over at Eve. “What?” 

“I think there’s something you need to tell me,” she said. 

“Ah,” said Q, going back to his search. “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else?” 

“Not until I find out how you just did that,” she said. “You put your hand…” 

“Where I shouldn’t have. Yes,” said Q, as he spotted a tell-tale patch of static. “Gotcha.” He flicked on the comm channel. “Bond, I’ve got him, get on that train.” 

“You couldn’t have worked this out five seconds earlier?” asked Bond, but his tone wasn’t angry. It was more…fond. 

“Probably,” said Q. “But I didn’t. Come on, chop-chop.” 

He was quite certain that he didn’t miss Bond’s rude hand gesture as he jumped out of sight of the CCTV cameras and onto Silva’s trail. 

“Get M out,” said Q, whirling around. “R, contact Tanner. Get them out of there. Eve, you’ll have to go in person; I think I know where that thing is going.” 

Just because he knew the souls that he would take, he didn’t know everyone who would die. There were more reapers in London, and as far as he could see, not everyone always merited personal service. Q respected M — she’d never warmed to him, she’d never been cowed by him.

“Where is it going?” asked Bond. 

“To Whitehall,” said Q. He swallowed. “To M.” 

“I’m on it,” said Bond, and Q clutched the desk in front of him as everyone around him ran. 

 

_________

 

Eve knew how to run in heels — it wasn’t an official part of the job description, but being able to hit a decent pace in a flimsy pair of shoes was definitely an asset. Q hadn’t explained much — not nearly enough to counter the disquieting sight of him digging his hand through a computer like it was a mirage — but he’d explained enough. 

“Grim reapers,” said Eve, as she jogged down to the carpark. “Grim-bloody-reapers.” 

“We’re not bloody,” said Q, pointedly, through her earpiece. “Or all that grim.” 

“Come on, I’ve seen Bond on a bad day,” she said. “I’d say that’s grim.” 

Q laughed, softly. “Get to M,” he said. “I have a bad feeling about this.” 

“Don’t you know if someone is going to die?” asked Eve, getting into her car, pulling on the seatbelt and hoping that the congestion wasn’t bad. She wasn’t sure if Mallory would give her a free pass for driving down the footpath here in central London. 

“Not always,” said Q. “And that doesn’t absolve me from doing everything that I can to make sure they don’t die.” He paused. “Besides, there’s plenty of things that can happen to a person that are worse than death.” 

“Thanks for that,” she said. “Very reassuring.” 

“I’m not here to reassure you,” he said. 

“So what, is this the fate of all high-ranking MI6 agents?” she asked. 

“No,” said Q. “Just me. And, lately, Bond.” 

A thought struck her — she wasn’t sure how to ask it, but she had to. 

“So when I shot him…?” 

“He was already dead,” said Q. “I’m sorry.” 

“ _Bastard_ ,” she said. “Not you.” 

“He didn’t know,” said Q. 

“Bet you ten quid?” 

He sighed. “Just get there,” he said. “I have a terrible feeling about this.” 

 

_________

 

Sanjiv watched the line ahead of him, alert for signal changes or problems. There’d been chatter in on the radio about fugitives on the stations, and of course everyone was jumpy, because everyone remembered what it was like a few years ago — every driver had a lucky story, an escape, a just-missed connection, a signal that saved them, a re-scheduling of their timetable. 

So he was watching carefully when the lights illuminated a man making his way into an access hatch. He wasn’t in a bright vest and hard hat — he looked like a commuter, and as he shoved the door open, he looked back at the train for just an instant, the light catching on a pale face and suit. Terrorists in suits? Stranger things had happened. 

“Control,” he said, radioing in. “I’ve just seen an unauthorised entry into access hatch…94, I think. Or 95.” 

“We’ll look into it,” said Sally, who Sanjiv had never seen, but he had a little crush on her over the radio.

“Thanks,” he said, and then called across to Peterson, who was taking Sanjiv’s usual shift. 

“How are you, ya bastard?” asked Peterson. 

“Something weird going on down here,” said Sanjiv. “I’m seeing people in the tunnels.” 

“You sure you’re not just tired, mate?” asked Peterson. “We’ll go get a cold one after work, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” said Sanjiv, remembering that Peterson hadn’t been around in 2005. “That’d be good.” 

The explosion rocked the train within the tunnel, rattling it like an earthquake. Sanjiv could hear people screaming in the cars, and he slapped the brake on — it was close, wherever it was. On the radio, he heard a stream of expletives from Peterson, and then a sharp crack and a hiss of static. 

“Peterson?” he asked, when his engine came to a stop. Static hissed on the line. He flicked on the speakers to the train. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your driver. Please remain calm and in your seats while I ascertain what the current situation is. If there is someone panicking in your general vicinity, please help them to calm themselves. We will not be long.” 

He turned off the speakers, and called in to control, getting someone who wasn’t Sally — it must have been too busy. 

“Terrorist attack,” said the man on the other end of the line. “Sally’s getting the system back up, but your passengers will need to get out and walk to the next station.” 

“Oh,” said Sanjiv. “Do you — know which line the attack happened on?” 

“I can’t tell you,” said the man. “But it was near to your location. Get your passengers out.” 

Sanjiv put on his official hat, and his official blazer. He tried the radio one last time. 

“You’d better meet me at the pub, you stupid bastard,” he told the empty air, and then went out to clean up after someone else’s disaster. 

 

__________

 

M hated inquiries. She always felt slippery-sick, like something was trying to squirm its way out of her guts even when she knew she’d done the right thing. She _knew_ she’d done the right thing. And Gareth Mallory, Gareth-bloody-Mallory, was sitting there like some great hawk, waiting to swoop in and take her job from her. 

She’d requested Tanner for this morning’s proceedings — she’d watched Mallory and Eve, and realised that Eve had moved on already. She wondered if Eve had realised why she hadn’t been invited. Probably. Eve was a bright woman, perhaps a little too bright. Tanner was twitching next to her, and she kept having to put a hand on his arm, like calming a dog — she knew that something was going on, but she was going to go out elegantly, not scuttling and hiding. 

Elegantly turned to nothing when the doors burst open, and Raoul Silva (she would not call him Tiago, she would never) entered, guns blazing. Tanner pulled her down — of course, he wasn’t armed, they hadn’t let either M or Tanner carry weapons into the building — but it was too late — Silva had seen her, and he was making his way across the room. She looked up to meet his eyes — she refused to die quailing. Tanner was trying to cover her, but it was useless; Silva walked toward her unerringly, followed by something not quite real. It looked like a smudge on one’s glasses, a little moving piece of something that wasn’t right. The thing was silvery-smokey, like a little worm, and as M watched, it crawled into Silva’s mouth. 

“Hello, Mummy,” said Silva, raising the gun. “It’s time to die.” 

She froze, until she saw Bond — not heading toward her, nor toward Silva, just doing his job and his duty. He broke the spell that had fallen over the room, the little hush, and he did something bizarre indeed — he shot at the fire extinguishers, so that clouds of CO2 billowed from their stricken sides, cold and strangely beautiful. Silva whipped around to look for him, and it was in those seconds that Tanner grabbed her and dragged her back into the fog as gunshots rang out across the room. 

“Ma’am,” said Tanner, pulling her to his side. “We need to go.” 

They crawled together through the fog, even as breathing became difficult, and as Silva’s henchmen shot at them. Tanner whipped out a gun from his briefcase and shot a man; he flashed her an apologetic look as he did so. So, he had a plastic gun. 

“Specialty weapon,” he said. “Q made it for me for just this situation.” 

“Remind me to thank him,” she said, weakly. 

“I’ll go and get the car,” he replied. “Make a break for it in a minute or so, so that you can run straight out.” 

“Giving me orders, Mr Tanner?” she asked. 

He smiled. “Keeping you alive, ma’am.” 

Her heart swelling in her chest, she watched him run, waiting a minute until she couldn’t bear it any longer and she followed him — out, out, safe. There was an MI6 staff car parked just opposite, and she hurried over to it, feeling a lot better than she had in those terrifying few minutes when Silva had stormed the building. 

Safe. She’d be safe with her agents. 

That was, until she got into the staff car and James Bond was the driver.

 

__________

 

As the CO2 fog cleared, M had vanished into it like a ghost. Eve took stock of the situation, of Tanner running back into the room with his expression that said _something very bad has just happened_ , and her eyes lit on Gareth Mallory, who was clutching his arm, his face pale and features drawn. 

She made her decision, and knelt beside him. Outside there were sirens wailing, and in here her ears still rang with gunshots, the chemical reek of powder and the broken fire extinguishers almost suffocating. Mallory looked at her with a slightly unfocussed gaze. 

“Talk to me,” she said. 

“I’m fine,” he said, and then tried to move. “Right. I’m not…that fine.” 

“Is it just your arm?” 

“Yes.” 

“All right,” she said, and stripped off her jacket, wadding it up to make a pad for the bleeding. 

There was rather a lot of blood, and Eve put a hand to his forehead to feel his temperature. She knew forehead was only ever a guess, but he felt cold and clammy. She brushed his hair back soothingly.

“Eve,” he said, and she nodded. Good. He’d recognised her even though he was dropping into shock. 

“Stay still, and try to lie back,” she said. “I’ll make sure they triage you quickly.” 

“There are surely more wounded people than me,” he said. 

“We’ll need a leader,” she said. “Sir.” 

He was silent for a few seconds, the strain of the injury starting to show in the lines on his face. 

“I see,” he said. 

“Tanner and I have been preparing for this since the first attack,” said Eve. “Protocol says that if the current head of MI6 is forced into hiding, then a successor should be named. You’ve been named in Hansard as a potential successor.” 

He grimaced more than smiled. “Bringing the secret services into the light,” he said. “And I don’t remember seeing that.” 

“Standing Committee on Intelligence,” she said. “Not public domain.” 

“Ah,” he said. “And so you’re making the choice for them.” 

“I don’t think it was ever in doubt,” said Eve, as paramedics began to storm the room. “All right, give me thirty seconds.” 

“Thirty seconds? You are good,” he said, his lips so pale as to be practically bloodless. 

“Hold this over your arm,” she said, and it took even less than thirty seconds to get their own personal paramedic once he’d seen her ID card, and then a minute to get a stretcher. 

She walked beside them, holding the wad of fabric still. 

“You know about bullet wounds; keep the padding in place until you make it to the hospital,” said the paramedic, as they were ushered into a waiting ambulance. 

“I do know about bullet wounds,” said Eve, settling in beside the stretcher, one of the paramedics back with them, the other driving.

“It’s basic training, isn’t it?” asked Mallory, as the vehicle lurched a little, coming down off the edge of the footpath and onto the road. 

Eve smiled. “After I shot James Bond, I did a lot of reading into first aid for bullet wounds,” she said. 

He laughed, the strain still apparent in his expression. “Miss Moneypenny,” he said. “I want you on my team.” 

“All right,” she said, still holding her jacket over the wound in his arm. “I can work with that.” 

“I know you can,” he said. “I’ve been watching.” 

 

__________

 

Terrorist attacks across London ::: MI6 and MI5 requested to answer why they have not been stopped ::: Train driver the only casualty in massive explosion ::: Shots in Whitehall ::: Police appealing for calm ::: Think on Your Sins :: Think on Your Sins ::: Think On Your Sins ::: 

Stand by please. Technical difficulties. 

 

__________

 

When James was a very little lad, his parents died. He hadn’t really understood the concept of _death_ as anything but an event before — something died, and life went on. Kincade shot a deer, they had venison for tea. Great-aunt Agatha died, and Mummy was sad for a week, and James got new shoes and a child-sized suit to go to the funeral. 

Never before the death of his parents did he appreciate how a death can poison a whole network of memories and places, like a virus spreading, replicating, burning all before it. Pleasantly sepia-toned thoughts of childhood were infected, as he remembered them and then remembered that Mummy and Daddy were dead, and that nothing would ever be the same again. 

He went to the funeral like a Good Boy (capital letters most certainly important) and he stood next to Kincade. He didn’t have any family left, and he was sick of hearing the villagers say _that poor boy_ as if he couldn’t hear it. 

“When I was a child,” said the priest, reading from the heavy Bible, “my thoughts and feelings were those of a child. Now that I am a man, I have no use for childish ways.”

James wore his funeral suit, and his blue eyes glittered. The priest droned on. 

“For what we see now is like a dim image in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.” 

James looked at the stained glass, and how it made the tree on the outside look red. He ignored the voice of the priest, and tried to see the sky. He’d seen planes going overhead, and once, out in the bay, a big warship had steamed past. He’d like to go on a warship. You didn’t have to have a family on a warship. 

Kincaide squeezed his shoulder, bringing him back to the moment as the priest finished. 

“…And these three remain.” He pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. “Faith, hope, and love…and the greatest of these is love.” 

(Never let it be said that James Bond didn’t listen.) 

 

__________

 

“Eve tells me that there’s some information I need from you,” said Gareth Mallory, striding into Q-Branch like his arm wasn’t bound up in a sling, like everything hadn’t gone to shit, like Bond hadn’t fucking _absconded_ with M. 

Q could think of a reason why Bond had run with her, and it made him feel sick — what if Bond hadn’t listened? What if Bond honestly thought that he was different, that he could change the destiny of M? What on earth would MI6 be like if it was run by a woman with a withering soul? 

Not that he knew that she was going to die, but Q wasn’t an idiot. Either Bond had run because he thought that he needed to keep her safe, or Bond had run because he knew that she was going to die. Perhaps this was kindness — take her somewhere secluded, let it happen, let no more civilians be caught in the crossfire. 

“I’m not certain that you’ll want the information that I can give you,” said Q. 

“You don’t know where they’re going, do you?” 

“I could guess,” said Q. “But that’s not what Eve wanted you to know.” Bloody Eve, he thought. But she would have been thinking strategically, thinking like an agent — Mallory couldn’t make the right decision without all the information. “Are you open to the possibility of there being more things in this world than you know about?” 

“You’re not talking about technology, are you?” asked Mallory. 

“No,” said Q, holding out his hand. “I’m not.” Tanner looked up at them both, a decidedly worried expression on his face. “Tanner, a chair for Director Mallory. It’s going to be quicker to show you.” 

“Acting Director,” said Mallory, looking at Tanner. Poor Tanner was the picture of misery — M had been under his care, he’d said to Q. His care. Not Bond’s. Q hadn’t had the heart to tell him that she was probably doomed, if she was with Bond. 

“Take my hand,” said Q. “And brace yourself — this might be quite a shock.” 

He’d perfected the art of removing a soul in his experiments with technology — at the beginning, he’d been clumsy, and he suspected that it might have hurt when he did it, but now it was as smooth as helping someone to stand. 

“I see,” said Mallory, as Q drew him into limbo, into the shadow-world. 

“It sounds ridiculous,” said Q, “but I usher souls into the next world. So does Bond.” 

“Has he taken M because she’s going to die?” asked Mallory. 

“I don’t know,” said Q. “I fear he might have.” He let Mallory fall back into his body — it didn’t do to have someone out for too long. “I think he’s done it so that the…collateral damage…is minimal.” 

“Yes,” said Mallory, gasping in several huge breaths, regaining his composure quickly. Q was impressed — it wasn’t easy to have your soul rattled loose. “Or he’s hoping to try to save her.” 

“Yes,” said Q, reluctantly. 

“What will happen if he succeeds?” asked Mallory. 

“If she was meant to die?” asked Q. “Nothing good. But she may not be going to die. I’ve got no way to tell unless he tells me.” 

“Then let’s hope she’s not due for death,” said Mallory. 

“Let’s,” said Q, and behind him, he heard Tanner choke, just a little. 

Perhaps if he’d trusted M like this right from the start, things would have been different between them. Q met Mallory’s eyes. 

“I’ll do everything I can to save them,” he said. 

“Good man,” said Mallory. “Tell me if I can help you do it.” 

 

_________

 

M would die tonight. 

Q didn’t know — Bond hadn’t been able to bring himself to call home when he’d got her name and Kincade’s in an email. Some of his recent work had been easy — the smog from the fire extinguishers had masked him grabbing the souls of the people in that stupid inquiry — but tonight was going to be difficult. M had curled under a blanket, bright eyes watching him as they sped out of London, and he’d thought that because he hadn’t got a message, things would be all right. Skyfall itself didn’t have good phone reception; he’d been surprised when his mobile buzzed against his hip. 

And then he’d despaired, and gone out shooting with Kincade, because dammit, perhaps destiny wasn’t fixed. 

He thought of Q. 

“We’re not told how they die,” Q had said less than a week ago, over breakfast, comparing emails. “Just that they do.” 

“Can it be changed?” 

“Only by a miracle,” said Q. “I’ve only seen it happen once.” 

“How?” 

“A father gave his life to his daughter. Made a bargain. I wouldn’t recommend it.” 

Here at Skyfall, Bond briefly thought about making a bargain, but gave it up as useless — he was already dead. He had no decent cards, no spare chips, and no convenient American friends to give him a suitcase full of cash. 

“What are you thinking about?” asked M, when he came downstairs for lunch — haggis, disgusting, but strangely homely. 

“If we’re going to go down,” said Bond, as Kincade cut the bread, “we’re going to do it fighting.” 

“We are,” she said, smiling. “And we’re going to do it together.”

Yes, thought Bond, except I’ll be the only one who’ll leave. He cut open an orange, and it was the best thing he’d ever tasted — sharp and citrus-sour. His brain hadn’t caught up with the fact that he was dead, he thought — it was still looking to experience every tiny thing, just in case this next breath might be his last. 

They’d secured the old house as best they could. M was smart when it came to jury-rigging things, it turned out, and she helped to make little incendiary devices — when he asked her about them, she looked at him with a penetrating stare and told him that she’d seen them before, from the other side, so that answered that. 

“This is going to be dangerous, isn’t it?” asked Kincade. 

“Yes,” said M. “And I’m sorry that you’ve been drawn into it.” She sipped her tea, her expression pensive. “If I hadn’t taken the decision to report James’s death, then we’d be in a stronger position now.” 

“You can’t regret,” said Bond. “None of us can afford regrets, not now.” 

“And these men who are coming, they’re the bad guys?”

“Yes,” said M. “They are.” 

They washed up after lunch in silence, forks chiming against plates, such an ordinary thing to be doing. Kincade excused himself for a minutes, and M turned to Bond. 

“You’re scared,” she said. 

“And you aren’t?” he replied. 

“Of course I’m scared,” she said. 

“It’s not too late for me to call Q,” said Bond. “We could get help; we don’t have to do this alone.” If he’d learned anything in these past weeks, he thought grimly, he’d at least learned that. 

She smiled at him. “We do,” she said. “I’m not having anyone else in danger over this. So what will happen will happen; I’m not going to see anyone else die for me.” 

You will, he thought. “I suppose I don’t count,” he said, in a poor attempt at humour. 

“You count,” she said, giving him an unbearably gentle glance. “You’ve always counted.” 

He hugged her. He’d never hugged her before. He’d put an arm around her, certainly; ushered her to safety, used his body to shield hers, but he’d never put both arms around her and drawn her close. She smelled faintly of lavender, and she hugged him back for just a moment, before they parted. 

“What does your other employer say?” asked M, giving him a sharp look that penetrated right down to his bones. 

“Nothing,” lied Bond. 

She snorted, unladylike. God, he loved her. 

“Well,” she said. “That’s got to be a first.” 

 

__________

 

The fight was over quickly, because when David meets Goliath in the real world, the giant wins — or, at least, sets fire to the house and sets David running from the flames. It’s only when people meet on equal terms that the outcome becomes less certain. Silva’s helicopter razed Skyfall to the ground, and Bond almost considered staying in there. He’d have to die if he was burned, wouldn’t he? 

But no, he wasn’t going to do that. He had work to do here, and he had Q to go back to, and he wasn’t going to burn today. He let Kincade and M make a break for it, and then he set an explosion to obliterate his past. As the door to the priest’s hole shut behind them, he straightened, and then set about making this place into the biggest funeral pyre that Scotland had ever seen. 

He arranged the explosives around Kincade’s body. A Viking funeral, of sorts. Right?

Right? 

 

__________

 

“All right, love,” said Kincade, as they hobbled in some sort of desperate three-legged race, adults acting like frightened children. “The exit’s just up ahead, and it’ll get up out near the chapel. We’ll be safe in there — that’s God’s house, right?” 

M ached to be able to suck in a decent breath. “I don’t—” she began, “I don’t think that God likes me very much.” 

“He likes everyone,” said Kincade. “And you’re friends with James, so you must be a good soul.” 

She tried not to deny that — was she _friends_ with James, exactly? And were either of them good? They were necessary, certainly, but were they good? She didn’t know. She supposed, in the end, that it didn’t matter. They were necessary — they’d been necessary. Value judgements were a matter that she couldn’t concern herself with. 

The chapel looked like it was a million miles away — she felt like it was a million miles away. And it wouldn’t be safe; if the stone walls of Skyfall hadn’t been safe, how on earth could a rough-hewn chapel be safe? But that wasn’t fair. She was angry because she hurt. She’d been shot before — she _had_ been an active field agent, thank you very much, Bond -- but she didn’t remember it hurting like this when you got shot. 

She suspected that was because she’d never been killed before. Even the greenest agent knows that certain shots will almost always kill. She knew she was dying, but in the dim light she caught a glimpse of James’s face, and he was so determined, so steely, so dear that she couldn’t bring herself to just lie down and accept it. Her children, she thought; her legacy. James and Alec and Raoul and Bill and all of them, every one of her little boys running out to save the world. Her daughters, she’d cloistered — Eve was too valuable to be shot at, to die like Sally had, alone and afraid. 

Perhaps that had been a mistake. Eve was a very good agent. 

They hobbled through the frozen grass, and after the first time she stumbled, she didn’t even think of telling Kincade to lose the torch — yes, it would make them sitting ducks, but the wrench of pain in her guts was too much to bear. She held her side as if she could hold the pain in, but it didn’t really work. She leaned heavily on Kincade — he smelled like gun oil and whisky, and the ground crunched under her feet, everything breaking into sharp relief as she realised that she was going to die. 

The stars overhead were so bright that they pierced right through her; M was going to die, and James was going to take her soul. 

She’d never admit it, but she had thought on her sins. Not the obvious sins — not the stupid things that everyone knows not to do, not the things that if they were to come to light would destroy her and everyone around her. Those had been decisions, not sins. The little things bothered her, the things she’d forgotten or had happened quite by accident; forgotten dates, careless words, the sins that had crept up on her rather than the ones she’d chosen. 

She should probably have apologised to Q. Not for imprisoning him, no, he’d understood why, and she wouldn’t have had him return as an agent if he hadn’t understood why she needed to know that he was safe. But for after — for never quite trusting him. She’d heard him on the phone to Bond; he’d helped Bond get her here and he’d probably defied orders to do it. When they were caught, Mallory would probably eviscerate them both, or at least lock them up and throw away the key. Were they doing it for her, or was Q doing it for Bond? 

Did it matter? she thought, as Kincade threw open the doors to a tiny chapel. It smelled like church — stone, old wood, rotting paper in forgotten hymnals. Even the most permanent words would fade, given time. Even the most permanent ideals would end up not mattering in the end. 

“Here we are, love,” said Kincade. “Here we are. We’ve made it — we’re safe.” 

“Safe is a relative term, Mr Kincade,” she said. “We’re never _safe_.” 

“Pish,” he replied, helping her into the dusty interior, the light from the burning manor bringing life to the carved stone figures that lined the walls. “Have a little faith — things’ll turn out for the best. They usually do. You’ll see.” 

The problem was, with everything that had happened in the last few months, M wasn’t sure if things turning out for the best included her alive or not. 

 

__________

 

In cities, the world was alive with light. 

He’d never known if it was a cruel trick of the cyanide, or whether it was his metal bones resonating so close to his brain, but the first time Raoul had returned to a city he’d nearly gone mad with delight at the twisting lines of light that lined every wall, every powerline. As wifi had developed, he’d retreated from cities, because he saw rainbows even when his eyes were closed, data, beautiful, useful data, rolling through the air like he could simply reach out and catch it. 

He’d never bothered to try to explain it to anybody else. Raoul liked secrets, and he knew that he could keep secrets no matter what. No matter _what_. In the chill air, his metal cooled under his skin, aching a little. He liked the ache. It let him know he was alive. 

Cities also had the rats. 

He’d have known where his quarry was even if they hadn’t been stupid enough to use a torch — there were the little man-rats following them, turning back to make sure he was on his way, crouching and jumping. They’d been kind to him over the years — he’d initially dismissed them as an hallucination, but then they were able to interact with the physical world, weren’t they? They’d liked playing tricks on his guards, and Raoul had liked watching them — watching fully grown men frightened of shadows. 

When they’d got to the island, some of the boys had rounded up everything that still breathed on its shores, and shot it. It hadn’t helped. They hadn’t been able to see the rats. The rats still tipped over stones, still scuttled in corners, still watched silently all the time. _All_ the time. He’d enjoyed it, in its own obscene way — someone was there to see how clever he was, to appreciate just how damn _clever_ he was, and what MI6 — and Mummy — had lost. 

Tonight, he’d brought the light to the countryside, to the frozen countryside, his breath fogging ice as James Bond’s house burned down. So much easier, he thought — no need to huff and puff to blow a house down, just set a fire and wait. It was almost disappointing in the end — Bond hadn’t been able to stop him, had sank like a rock into frozen water. 

Mummy wouldn’t be pleased with Bond. She’d never tolerated failure from her agents, and he’d failed — oh, he’d _failed_. Raoul hadn’t failed. He could see them in the chapel, and he picked up his pace; what a lovely place to die. It was the end — time to go.

Raoul was rather looking forward to it. 

 

__________

 

Bond dragged himself to the chapel like some grotesque parody of human life — he was soaked to the skin, shivering, burned but healing. He’d heal, he thought, but M wouldn’t. Never mind that he’d felt her soul loosen in its bonds when she hugged him earlier — he didn’t want her to die in pain. 

Silva had thrown as many obstacles into Bond’s path as he could. Bond respected him for that, in an odd, twisted way. There might not be honour among thieves, but there was certainly honour among assassins, and if Silva had been easy to catch, Bond would have been disappointed. 

He’d realised that Silva was going to the chapel when he’d felt M there. Kincade was with her, even though his body was only ash — Bond had wondered, momentarily, if that meant one got a better place in Heaven. If there was a Heaven, and a God. He wasn’t really sure that there was, especially not when he was caught on an icy pond — stupid, _stupid_ , he should have gone around — and then thrown into the water, his dead flesh not really reacting, but his sense of honour champing at the bit. 

He had to be there for M’s death. Even if he could do nothing, he needed to be present for it. That was important. He struggled his way to the surface once he’d killed the man (oh, so _that_ was Sam Florence), and broke the thin layer of ice that had already formed over the hole they’d fallen in through. Bond dragged himself to the shore, and he was certain that there was ice forming on his back, on his breath, on his internal organs, but he was dead, wasn’t he? That meant that he had no excuses — he had to go on. 

He creaked towards the chapel, getting there just in time. M was crouched by the altar, and Kincade by the vestibule — fond old fool, he’d stayed up here with her, right until the very last. Silva — ah, Silva — was trying to force M’s hand, and failing. 

Bond reacted before he thought. 

It was probably better that he hadn’t thought. 

The knife thudded into Silva’s back with a sound like it was hitting a wooden post — like it was no different to knife-throwing practise, or the stupid tricks Bond had done to scam tourists out of their money when he was “dead”. 

“You have your soul back,” said Bond, before Silva could say anything. “Q thinks that will mean that you can move on, but I don’t have your name on my list. So I don’t think you will.” 

Silva staggered. “Do you think you’re being kind?” 

“Yes,” said Bond. “But I don’t think I’m being kind to you.” 

Silva laughed, then, and Bond understood — they were both agents. They both knew what England would ask of them — what she would take, how they’d be left. This was hardly a surprise. 

“I’ll move on,” said Silva, not turning to face him, falling to his knees. “I’ll always move…” 

He fell, face first onto the cold stone floor. Behind him, Bond could hear the gravelings yammering. 

“Bond,” said M, gasping in a breath. 

“Ma’am,” he said, and he stepped over Silva’s body to get to her. 

“Am I on your list?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said, and he drew her to his chest; her body was surprisingly frail and human, her side wet with her own blood. “I’m sorry. I would have…I would have done anything, if I could.” 

“What the bloody hell is that?” asked Kincade, and Bond looked up sharply; he wasn’t really sure of what happened if you killed someone who was supposed to be dead, but you didn’t take their soul. He’d seen enough zombie films to know what the evil undead might look like, though, and he tensed, on his guard. 

The thing that was climbing from Silva’s body was no zombie. It was small and twisted, its face vaguely familiar as it sniffed the air, casting about the room. Not quite humanoid, not quite animal. Graveling. The other gravelings rushed at it from the darkness at the edges of the room, and Bond suddenly understood. The gravelings must have been people, once. There’d been no directive to take Silva’s soul, because it wasn’t going anywhere — it was going to be trapped into the same kind of purgatory that Bond and Q lived in, but instead of the comfort of humanity and the certain knowledge of reward, it seemed to be… well. The Other Place. 

Perhaps the universe did have a sense of fairness. 

“Are those gravelings?” asked M, gripping Bond’s hand. 

“Yes,” said Bond, realising that Q must have told her that they existed, but not what they were. He wondered if even Q knew that this was what happened to some people; he hadn’t mentioned it, and he’d been so forthright with Bond. 

“What?” asked Kincade. 

“Gravelings,” said Bond. “They hasten deaths.” 

Kincade shuffled forward, clearly fascinated. “Do we all turn into that when we die, then?” 

M’s breathing was slowing, and Bond held her steady. 

“No,” said Bond. “Most people don’t, I think.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you. But if I’d refused, I think you’d turn into — into that.” 

“You did save us, lad,” said Kincade. “That creepy bugger is dead, and we’re still here, aren’t we?” 

“You’re here, but you’re dead,” said Bond. “You died when the house went up — one of the gunmen got you in the first round.” 

“Oh,” said Kincade. “But how am I still talking, then?” 

“Because you’re a good soul,” said Bond. “You carried her to the chapel for me.” He looked up at Kincade, and Kincade sat beside him, putting a paternal arm around Bond’s shoulder. “I can never thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” 

“Never had a little laddie of my own,” said Kincade. “You turned out all right, I reckon.” He patted Bond on the back, getting to his feet. “Where are we going, then?” 

“Somewhere pleasant,” said Bond.

“I made it to the good place?” 

“You did,” said Bond, wondering how such a man could think that he wouldn’t. 

“That’ll be nice,” said Kincade. He looked up, and Bond realised that a circle of light had appeared in the ceiling of the chapel. Gravelings snorted and scuttled at the edges of the room, but Kincade ignored them, raising his arms to the light, a beatific smile on his face. 

He left silently. Bond had almost expected a choir. 

In his arms, M was shivering. He adjusted his grip — gently, _gently_ — and held her closer. 

“Bond,” said M, as Bond felt like his heart was being wrenched out of his chest. “James. My James.” 

“I tried,” he said, weak for the first time today, all of the energy rushing out of him as he held her close. “I tried.” 

“I know,” she said, taking his face between her hands, wiping the tears off his cheeks with her thumbs. “I know you did. You must have known all day, but you tried regardless.” 

She kissed him softly and he hugged her tightly in return; it wasn’t fair, it _wasn’t_.

“Take care of yourself,” she said. “For me.” 

She exhaled, and didn’t inhale; he wept, then, holding her body against his, uncaring that he was so cold as to be numb with it and that her blood was staining his shirt. He wept, until a gentle hand touched his shoulder. 

“James,” M said. “It’s all right.” 

He looked up at her; he was glad that he’d loosened the grip that her body held on her soul even before the fighting had begun, because she looked perfect, now — no spreading red stain on her side, no lines of pain at the corners of her eyes. 

“Get up, 007,” she said, folding her arms. She was smiling, though, and he blinked away his tears. “Come on.” 

“Come on?” he asked, gently laying her body to rest, covering her with his coat. 

“Q got drunk one night and told me that he takes people to lovely places,” she said. “So come on, where’s mine?” 

She held out her hand. He took it, twining their fingers together, and as helicopters whirred overhead and the gravelings danced at the ruins of Skyfall, James Bond took M on one final trip. 

 

___________

 

The message came in from Scotland, and Q felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Beside him, Tanner crumpled — his legs went out from under him, and he staggered heavily, falling into a chair. 

“What did we do?” he asked. 

“We gave her the best chance we could,” said Q, looking at the screens. 

Bond must have known — Bond must have taken her. She and Q had never seen eye-to-eye — he’d suspected that she might outright hate him, and he’d certainly been wary her for years (something about being shot) — but Bond had loved her, in his own desperate way. 

Tanner was making choked little sounds, like he was trying not to cry, and Q got the tissues from R’s desk, pulling up a chair in front of Tanner’s, handing him a wad of tissues, letting him blow his nose like he was a little boy. Q thought about it — of course, compared to Q, Tanner _was_ a little boy, and Q knew how to reassure people. Something about a hundred-odd years of dealing with deaths had taught him how to reassure even the most frightened person. 

“Bill,” said Q, putting a hand on his back. “Believe me when I say that she has gone to a good place.” 

Tanner sniffed. “I know,” he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. 

“But you don’t know in here,” said Q, pressing his fingertips to Tanner’s chest. “Believe me. I promise.” 

“Did you know she was going to…?” asked Tanner, trailing off. 

“No,” said Q, which was the truth. “But I know where people go. When you die, you see somewhere to go; for some people, it’s a place, like a funfair or a great big garden. For others, it’s a way to get there — Boothroyd left in a fast car. But the important thing is that you go somewhere that you belong.” 

“Does it all lead to the same place?” asked Tanner, taking more tissues. 

“I don’t know,” said Q. “I hope it does. I know sometimes there’s someone waiting for the person.” 

“But what about if you go to Hell?” asked Tanner. 

“I’ve never seen it,” said Q. 

“You’ve never seen anyone bad enough to go to Hell?” 

“I didn’t stick around to watch,” said Q, because he would have done anything to get out of reaping John’s death. 

 

________

 

It was the local fuzz who got there first — a burning building and helicopter firefight weren’t exactly normal, and they’d attracted a lot of attention. James was vaguely aware of being yelled at by a man with a thick accent, his terror almost palpable as Bond stood in the field, covered still in M’s blood, ice crystalising on his clothes, in his hair. He’d stopped shivering even before he got to the chapel. 

He was pushed to the ground by the guy; he could fight, but he was just so tired. 

“I’m MI6,” said Bond, to the dirt. 

“Oh, are you now?” asked the cop. 

“Yes,” said Bond. “I sent them a message a while ago. They’ll be here soon.” The air felt like icy knives inside his chest, as on-cue, a helicopter hummed in the distance. “I’ll tell them not to bother you — you’re just doing your job.” 

“And how do I know that you’re not lying?” asked the cop. 

“You don’t,” said James. They’d sent one of the old Q’s souped-up machines — it flew fast and true, like an arrow, and he felt a faint stirring of gratitude. They knew that M was dead, but they’d sent for him. He’d be taken back to London, where it was warm, and where he didn’t have to think about what he’d just done. Never take a mission on your own turf, Leiter had told him, back when he was just a fledgeling and Leiter was this great American eagle. Never take a mission on your own turf, because you’ll never let go of it. 

Well, Skyfall wasn’t so much his turf anymore, was it? He stayed on the ground as they landed, and then let himself be bundled up by medical staff, his limbs refusing to operate anymore as he was dragged bodily onto a stretcher. He could hear the locals being overriden, and he chuckled to himself — of course, whenever David goes up against Goliath, he’d better hope that Goliath doesn’t have a helicopter. 

“Standby with the defibrillator,” said one of the medevac team, and then she leaned over him. “Agent, we’re taking you back to London; we’ve got a specialist team waiting for you.” 

“I couldn’t save her,” he said, as a mask was lowered over his face, warm air blowing where he could suck it into his aching lungs. 

“Just relax,” said the doctor. “We’ll have you home in no time.” 

“Tell them,” said Bond, as the last of his strength left him. “And tell them not to hurt that cop. We were both just doing our jobs.” 

 

________

 

Bond was freezing cold when they got him into Medical — so cold that he should have been going into some kind of hypothermic shock, but he was still breathing, still moving, just blank and tired and closed-in, like he was turned off for the night. Q hovered, aware of Bill’s eyes on him, of Mallory — M? Was Mallory M, now? — standing quietly and watching Q gently run his hand over Bond’s cold arm as the medical team slowly warmed him. 

“We might have to move to active internal rewarming; they had him warming since the helicopter picked him up, but it’s not doing much,” said one of the medics, as Q kept stroking Bond’s arm. 

“No,” said Q. “Don’t put him through that.” 

Mallory cleared his throat. “Will he survive if we don’t?” he asked. 

“Yes,” said Q. “Bond, do you want us to try to warm you more?” James didn’t reply, but he did turn his head in to Q’s hand when Q touched his cheek. Q felt a lump forming in his throat, hot and painful when he swallowed. “You did the right thing. I promise you, however hard it was, that you did the right thing.” 

“She died,” said James, and Q heard Tanner make a tiny choking noise. “She went on to — there was so much light —” 

“She’s home now,” said Q, gently stroking Bond’s hair; it was short and slightly ticklish under his palm, like fur. “And you didn’t make her suffer.” Bond closed his eyes, and Q tried to ignore everyone else. “Rest. You can rest now.” 

“We’re going to put in IV fluids, at least,” said the doctor. She gave Q a sad look. “I know you want to spare him this, love, but he needs it.” 

Q supposed that he did — and it was better than washing out Bond’s stomach with warmed fluids, so he gave in, stepping back as the team set up the saline drip. Bond’s fingers had been black-tipped when they’d got him into the bed, but they were slowly returning to their right colour. That was the most wonderful — but most unfair — thing about becoming a Reaper. No matter how bad it was, no matter if it should have destroyed you, you’d always heal. 

“You’re going to sit on observation, aren’t you?” asked the doctor. Q nodded. “Good man; there’s a call button if you need us.” 

“He’ll be fine,” said Q. 

“That’s the spirit,” said the woman, and she left them to watch Bond drift in and out of consciousness. 

“We’ve secured the scene,” said Eve, her shoes clicking against the hard floor. “There was local interference — police got there before us — but 008 took control. Bond’s the only survivor.” 

“Probably only because he can’t die,” said Q. 

“Sir,” said Eve, and Q turned to see Eve addressing Mallory. “There’s some correspondence you should see.” 

Mallory sighed. “I understand,” he said. “Gentlemen; keep me updated.” 

Eve led off, and Mallory followed her. Tanner stayed beside Q — Q wondered if he’d be as close to Mallory as he had been to M. He somehow doubted it. 

“He seems like he’ll be all right,” said Tanner, a little wistfully.

“He does,” said Q. He risked a glance at Bond. “It’s not going to be easy, is it?” 

Tanner smiled sadly. “Change never is. I should let you sit with him for a while; you two look like you need some privacy.” 

“I wish things had turned out differently,” said Q. 

Tanner nodded. “Tell me — what did he mean, there was so much light?”

“That I was right,” said Q. “She went to a good place.” 

“Thank God,” said Tanner. “Thank _God_. I’ll — I should. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Yeah,” said Q. “Go and sort out the transfer forms. That sort of stuff. Looks like Eve’s created a new job for herself.” 

“It does, doesn’t it?” asked Tanner. “Oh brave new world.” 

Q waited until Tanner had gone before he considered what the man had said. He shook his head. 

“I don’t think God had anything to do with it,” he said to nobody and to somebody who he’d never been able to identify. Nothing answered, but Bond stirred a little — nightmares, Q supposed. The bed in medical was big enough for both of them, if Bond stayed curled in on himself and Q tucked up close. They’d left a warming blanket on him, and the IV fluids were gently heating him from the inside, but Q got a sudden burning desire to be near. 

He turned off the main light, and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the lamps, he realised that they had an audience of gravelings. He slipped off his shoes and his jacket, climbing gingerly onto the bed. Bond stirred. 

“You all right?” asked Q. 

“No,” said Bond, looking over his shoulder at Q. 

“I’m sorry,” said Q, curling around him. “Go back to sleep — I shouldn’t have woken you.” 

Bond snuggled into Q’s arms, like they were at home, like everything was normal. Q had hated becoming a reaper, had hated John’s death, had hated himself for so many years after it all. He wasn’t going to allow that to happen to Bond. 

“Why are there gravelings?” said Bond, his voice rough, ill-used. 

“In here?” asked Q. “I have no idea. They’re curious, I suppose.” 

“No, why do gravelings exist?” said Bond. 

Q kissed his neck. “Might as well ask why we exist,” he said. “Something has to cause bad things to happen.” 

“What about good things?” asked Bond. “Doesn’t something need to cause good things?” 

“Humans,” said Q, quietly. “They cause good things. The rest is just — the universe.” 

“You think that humans are inherently good,” said Bond. 

“Yes,” said Q. “And the ones that aren’t — aren’t enough to balance out the ones that are. There’s always been more good than evil in the world.” 

Bond sighed, a wheezing, creaking sound. He should have healed from any broken ribs by now, so it meant that it was just melancholy that was making him wheeze. Q could quite understand. 

“Silva became a graveling.” 

“What?” asked Q, because _that_ he hadn’t expected.

“When he died,” said Bond. “He didn’t move on.” He shivered, suddenly. “He didn’t move on. He became one of them. So maybe you’re right. Maybe the bad humans aren’t really…human.” 

“I’ve never—“ said Q, his heart hammering. He sat up abruptly, nearly falling off the bed, and looked at the creatures that surrounded them. “Is that true? Were you human?” 

In the dark corners of the room, there were gravelings — little, twisted things, balding, some of them so thin that Q could see the movement of bone under skin as they shuffled. They looked vaguely embarrassed. Q felt vaguely ill. The fat graveling — the one that Q had seen hundreds of times since John’s death — gave him a sad look. Beside him, Bond sat up too, his arm around Q’s waist, his breathing sharp and hesitant as the graveling approached. 

He didn’t know how he made the connection, but there was something in the way it moved — it climbed onto the bed, gingerly making its way over the hills and valleys of Q and James’s legs, Q barely daring to breathe as it moved right up so that it was standing on his thighs. He’d never been so close to one before, not even when they’d helped him, and as he looked at it, he knew why the gravelings had helped him escape from M, all those years ago. 

“John?” he asked, but that was silly. 

It reached out twisted fingertips to brush against Q’s hair, and Q felt a lump in his throat — unaccountably so, because it was a _graveling_. It caused accidents, it caused things to go wrong. But there, perched on the edge of Bond’s monitoring instruments, was a new one, a little blondish one, and Q knew that Bond hadn’t been lying about Silva, so could this — could this one be…? 

The fat graveling nodded, fingertips tracing his cheekbone. He leaned down to it, and in a sudden mad impulse, pressed a kiss to its straggly hair. 

“Go on,” he said, because they’d had their time, and Bond’s arm was possessive around his waist, warm and secure, giving Q somewhere to rest. 

The graveling turned, and the world shimmered, and London as it had been invaded the room. Q seldom watched period dramas, because they always got it wrong — they never got the smell right, or the colours, or even the look of the buildings — and this was no period drama, it was life as it had been, London as it had been when they were young and in love. 

“You could go with it,” said Bond. “I’m here to take your place, aren’t I? That’s what you’ve been trying to tell me all along.” 

And yes, this was the first doorway into the afterlife that Q could bear to think about, the first that he’d considered taking. The graveling looked back at him, and stretched out a paw. But he’d promised. And he’d never got an order to go, and he felt — he was still useful here. He had a choice, but he was still useful here, and he’d promised not to leave. 

“Go on,” said Q, and he felt Bond’s grip tighten. “I’ve decided to stay a little while longer.” 

The graveling — _John_ , or what was left of him — scampered off into the light, and Q closed his eyes against the burn of tears for what could have been, what had never been. The little creatures scattered like rats, and Bond exhaled, holding him close, so Q kissed him, running both hands over Bond’s hair.

“They used to be humans all along,” said Q, when they parted. 

“And that one’s replacement arrived,” said Bond. “You didn’t go with him.” 

“No,” said Q, because he’d loved and lost and loved, and he wasn’t about to give up hope again. “I stayed here with you.” 

“You did,” said Bond, and he sounded a little stunned by that, as if he’d expected Q to up and leave. “I can’t promise it’ll be worth it.” 

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” said Q, kissing him again. “But I can tell you that it will be.” 

“You’re psychic, are you?” 

“No,” said Q. “Just very, _very_ determined.” 

Bond chuckled, tucking his head against Q’s neck, and they lay together, curled up against the world until morning. 

 

__________

 

“You have the job,” said Eve, as they walked into the office that up until a few hours ago had belonged to M — the old M. He wondered what her name was. “There’s an email. You are directed by the Prime Minister to take up the position and ensure a smooth transition between the old SIS and the new, under your leadership.” 

“Yes,” said Gareth, as he wondered how everything had gone so horrifically wrong in so little time. He’d seen things go down the tubes, everyone had, but this mission had gone south in such a determined, bloody-minded way, that he almost thought that the universe was against them. 

“Bill said he’d like to write the obituary,” she said. “I know it’s technically your duty, but—”

“I don’t need to write it,” said Gareth. He could think of little worse than writing your predecessor’s obituary. “I will need an identity on the computer systems — can Bill rush that through?”

“I’ve already done it,” said Eve. “Your password is _Glock17_ , capital G. I suggest you change it so that I don’t know it.”

“You’re going to need to know it,” said Gareth, planning something much more secure. “Have you still got an active DV clearance?”

“Yes,” said Eve. “They re-vetted me after I…shot Bond.” 

“Good,” he said. “We’ll have to get to work quickly, and I don’t want any hold-ups.”

He turned and looked out of the window, watching the people working below in their cubicles and at their temporary desks. They wouldn’t be here for long — they had to get home to Legoland — but while they were here, people were making the most of it, his people were getting on with things. What had this place looked like during Churchill’s war? He should ask Q; he imagined it was lit more warmly, that people were more jolly because you bucked up or shut up, that it was as busy as it was now. These were his people now, each of them with families and dreams and hopes and lives. He mustn’t forget that. He _mustn’t_. 

“What do you think about them?” asked Eve, from behind him.

“Who?” asked Gareth, wondering if he meant all of the people who were still working below — intelligence didn’t stop just because of one death, even if it felt like it should. 

“Bond and Q,” said Eve. 

“They’re loyal,” said Gareth. 

“Yes,” said Eve. “But what do we do about them?” 

He smiled. “Nothing.” 

“Nothing?” she asked. “But they’re—” 

“Effective, as far as I can tell,” said Gareth. “Do you think they’re a problem?” 

“No,” she said. “God, no.” 

“Then we’ll see how we go,” said Gareth. “In matters of national security, I’d prefer to have death on my side.”

 

___________

 

LONDON: An extraordinary series of events following a closed parliamentary inquiry into the Secret Intelligence Service has left the head of MI6 dead and a country manor in the wilds of Scotland destroyed in addition to the District line train disaster and bombings at the heart of Mi6 headquarters. 

The recent difficulties faced by intelligence services have only been underscored by this latter series of events, in which it appears that former MI6 head Olivia Mansfield was kidnapped during a parliamentary inquiry by an unknown assailant and removed to Scotland, where she died from wounds sustained during a tense hostage situation. SIS has made no official statement and refuse to confirm the death but unofficial sources via Wikileaks have stated that Mansfield’s death was _in battle_. 

“It was like something out of a Bruce Willis movie,” said one observer of the recent attack, who noted that SIS agents quickly moved to secure the building when the assailant — posited by online sources to be hacker Raoul Silva — entered the closed inquiry and opened fire. The potential of Silva’s involvement adds more spice to the mix; believed to be a major owner of servers and software clients which service the so-called “dark web”, Silva is a known target of both governments and vigilante cybersecurity groups. Even Anonymous has a vendetta against Silva — they cracked open his monopoly on weapons deals in China a year ago, and have run targeted attacks against his servers since then. It remains to be seen whether Silva survived the attack, or whether he is gone for good. 

Mansfield’s funeral will be held next week; her name was only released upon death, and a distinguished service record will be published in due course, although whether it includes her time at MI6 is currently unclear. According to the same source, her successor has been appointed, but will not be announced; they will take on the enigmatic title of “M” as held by all heads of the SIS since its inception, and the country must hope that this intelligence crisis settles quickly. 

 

___________

 

Bond didn’t cope after Skyfall; he broke into Q’s flat, and passed out drunk on the couch, waking with a blanket over him and a steaming mug of tea sitting beside him on the coffee table. Another day he woke with Q curled up on top him, tucked in close so as to not fall off. Q got up and made them both a drink, rain beating at the windows but unable to burst into their warm little bubble. 

“You know,” said Q, blowing the steam off his own tea. “If you’re not happy in your hotel, you’re welcome here.” 

He moved in over the course of three days, emptying his storage unit into the hollow spaces of Q’s life, and on the afternoon of the third day, he trapped Q against the kitchen counter, put both hands on his lovely little waist, and kissed him soundly. 

Q sighed into the kiss. “So are you going to take me to bed now that all of your stuff is here, or what?” he asked, practically against James’s lips. 

“I’m going to take you to bed,” said Bond. “Again, and again, and again.” 

“Good,” said Q. “I hate to beg.” 

 

____________

 

Q begged. Shamelessly. 

James enjoyed every second of it. 

 

____________

 

To: undisclosed recipient  
Subject: [no subject]

Thank you. 

Q 

 

 

________

 

**Epilogue**

 

The boy from Q branch looked owlish perched on the chair opposite M, blinking through his glasses. An affectation, she thought — nobody had to wear glasses anymore, but he was clearly some sort of trendster, aping the fashions of the past. 

“Reapers,” said M. “I had heard as much from Director Moneypenny, but I dismissed it.” 

“Yes,” said Q. “Most people do.” 

“Who gives you the names?” 

“I can’t answer that,” said Q. 

“Can’t, or won’t?” 

“Both,” said Q. 

“It would certainly make sense of some things,” she said. “I’d just thought that you and Bond had extremely good plastic surgeons.” 

“It’s not an uncommon misconception,” said Q. “It makes my life a lot easier, too, if people just think I’m vain.” 

“You _are_ vain,” she said. “Don’t think I can’t tell that’s not synth-silk. That’s the real thing.” 

Q smiled. “I think synth-silk would give Bond hives,” he said. “SIS is changing. Our role is changing. The only job description that’s stayed constant is the one that Bond and I do when no-one’s looking.” 

It was true. If the files were to be believed, these two came from the era of flesh-and-blood terrorism, when people were the targets and guns were the most effective method to bring someone down. She cleared her throat. 

“All the information says that you passed your latest positive vet and brain-scan,” she said. 

“You don’t need to ask if we will die for our country,” said Q, quietly. “We already have done.” 

“I know,” she said, and it was only her supreme self-control that stopped her from letting her horror show on her face. 

She was all right with AI, and clones, and even the tech that some people had installed in their heads to upgrade their memory, but undeath? No. The UN had published _The Right to Electronic Death_ in 2029, but even before then, people had been moving steadily towards the thought that every human and every machine had a right to simply cease. The thought that two of the best agents in the game hadn’t had that right was abhorrent.

Bond arrived late. This was hardly surprising — he’d been off quelling an uprising in the Republic of New Zealand, and besides, Director Moneypenny had once said to M that Bond was _always_ late. Q practically glowed when Bond walked in — unsubtle — and tilted his head just slightly. 

“Hello 007,” said Q. “I hope you don’t mind we’ve started without you.” 

“Hello darling,” said Bond, running a hand over Q’s shoulder before taking his seat. “No, I don’t care; anything of interest?” 

Of course — he and the boy were married, if you believed the AIs, who were all rotten gossips. The purpose of making gossipy AI quite escaped M (something about avoiding the uncanny valley, she’d heard) and she’d quickly learned to ignore them unless they were gossiping about what the AI in the US embassy were up to. 

“It says here,” said M, “that the only physical test you passed was your aim. Unsurprising, since your sealed file makes you out to be over a hundred. You’ve got no genetic or cybernetic enhancements.” 

“Yes,” said Bond, unruffled. “And I’ve got nothing on Q in age, as he keeps reminding me.” 

“Don’t even tell me,” she said. “Tell me why I should continue to send you out into the field.” 

Bond met Q’s eyes, smiled, and then turned to her. 

“I’m already dead,” he said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You tell me,” she said. 

“Explosions, usually,” said Q, with an insufferably fond tone. 

“And if your…other employer…calls on you to do something that is not in our interests?” 

“They won’t, not directly — if someone dies, they die, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it,” said Q. “I’m sorry.” He shifted on his seat. “And one day, maybe soon, we’ll leave; if you lose one of us, you’ll lose both. Our other employer promised us that much.” 

“But while we’re here, our loyalties are firm,” said Bond, and looking at his file, he’d been shot, stabbed, tortured, nearly killed a hundred times over for his country.

“It’s up to you whether you trust us,” said Q, taking Bond’s hand. “I could do with a break.” 

“My predecessor trusted you unconditionally,” said M. “There’s years of surveillance of both of you. I think I can go out of a limb.” 

Bond smiled. “You won’t regret it,” he said. 

“I hope not,” she replied, looking at them. 

No regrets, she thought. 

None.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fan Art for Do I Wake or Sleep?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/930191) by [Justgot1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justgot1/pseuds/Justgot1)




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